PITYROSPORUM OVALE,
the strange "Bottle Bacillus”
regarded by many authorities
as a causative agent of infec-
tious dandruff.
H!! Ly SCALES
It may be Infectious Dandruff!
START TODAY WITH THE TESTED LlSTERIHE TREATMEHT THAT HAS HELPED SO MANY
T ELL-TALE flakes, itching scalp and
inflammation — these "ugly custom-
ers” may be a warning that you have the
infectious type of dandruff, the type in
which germs are active on your scalp!
They may be a danger signal that mil-
lions of germs are at work on your scalp
. . . including Pityrosporum ovale, the
strange "bottle bacillus” recognized by
many foremost authorities as a causative
agent of infectious dandruff.
Don’t delay. Every day you wait, your
condition may get worse, and before long
you may have a stubborn infection.
Use Medical Treatment*
Your common sense tells you that for
a case of infection, in which germs are
active, it’s wise to use an antiseptic which
quickly attacks large numbers of germs.
So, tor infectious dandruff, use Listerine
Antiseptic and massage.
Listerine Antiseptic kills millions' of
Pityrosporum ovale and other germs
associated with infectious dandruff.
Those ugly, embarrassing flakes and
scales begin to disappear. Itching and in-
flammation are relieved. Your scalp feels
fresher, healthier, your hair looks cleaner.
76% Improved in Clinical Tests
And here’s impressive scientific evi-
dence of Listerine’s effectiveness in com-
bating dandruff symptoms: Under the
exacting, severe conditions of a series of
clinical tests, 7 6% of the dandruff sufferers
who used Listerine Antiseptic and massage
twice daily showed complete disappear-
ance of or marked improvement in the
symptoms, within a month.
In addition to that, countless men and
women all over America report joyously
that this grand, simple treatment has
brought them welcome relief from dan-
druff’s distressing symptoms.
Start tonight with the easy, delightful
home treatment — Listerine Antiseptic and
massage. It has helped so many others, it
may help you. Buy the large, economy-
size bottle today and save money.
Lambert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, Mo.
*THE TREATMENT
MEN: Douse full strength Listerine
on the scalp morning and night.
WOMEN: Part the hair at various
places, and apply Listerine Antiseptic.
Always follow with vigorous and
persistent massage. Listerine is the
same antiseptic that has been famous
for more than 50 years as a gargle.
ASTOUNDING
SCIENCE-FICTION
TITLE REGISTERED U. S. PATENT OFFICE
Contents for July, 1942, Vol. XXIX, No. 5
John W. Campbell, Jr., Editor, Catherine Tarrant, Asst. Editor
Novelettes
SECRET UNATTAINABLE A. E. van Vogt ... 9
Hitler’s secret weapon? Yes — there was one — but the secret was
such that it was — for Hitler’s type — forever unattainable.
PENANCE CRUISE David V. Reed ... 46
The trouble was that the Exotican general, in his bright-orange
uniform, looked so much like a space-mine — round three ways,
and explosive — to a pair of overcelebrating spacemen —
COLLISION ORBIT Will Stewart ... 80
A new author introduces a new theme in science-fiction — the dan-
ger and the possibilities in “seetee” drift matter made up the
inverse of terra's stuff — contraterrene hell in chunks 1
TOOLS Clifford D. Simak . . 118
The life form of Venus was definitely not “life as we know it,”
and it needed tools to work with. Man didn’t mean to be so
generous —
Short Stories
BRIMSTONE BILL Malcolm Jameson . 27
Bill was a hell-fire-and-damnation orator — with gadgets — and
purely for personal profit, not prophet. But a bad actor can be
turned to good use, Commander Bullard figured.
THE CONTRABAND COW L. Sprague de Camp . 38
Author de Camp suggests a sidelight on the Union Now theme—
a question of customs, and population and voting powers —
SPACE CAN L. Ron Hubbard . . 71
If your ship is riddled, on fire, unable to maneuver, an obvious
hopeless wreck in the midst of a space battle, there’s only one
way out — take over the heavy enemy shin!
Article
STARS ALSO HAVE RINGS ...... R. S. Richardson . . 78
No telescope can possibly see the "geographical” make-up of an-
other stellar system — they’re too immeasurably remote. No am-
plifier can help that — except the amplifier system known as
brain-power !
Readers’ Departments
THE EDITOR'S PAGE 6
IN TIMES TO COME 108
Department of Prophecy and Future Issues.
THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY 108
An Analysis of Readers’ Opinions.
PROBABILITY ZERO 109
Calling All Liars!
BRASS TACKS . . . 115
Concerning Purely Personal Preferences.
OCT THIRD
FRIDAY
BACH MONTH
NEXT ISSUE ON
SALE JULY 17
$2.50 per YEAR
25c per COPY
Printed In the U.8.A.
Cover by Rogers
Illustrations by Kolliker, Orban and Kramer
Monthly publication Issued by Street & Smith Publications, Incorporated, 79 Seventh Avenue,
New York City. Allen L. Crammer, President; Henry W. Ralston, Vice President;
S erald H. Smith, Secretary and Treasurer. Copyright, 1942, in U. S. A. and Great Britain by
treet & Smith Publication*. Ine. Reentered as Second-class Matter, February 7, 1938, at the
Post Office at New York, under Act of Congress of March 3, 1879. Subscriptions to Countries In
J *an American Union, $2.75 per year; elsewhere, $3.25 per year. We cannot accept responsibility
or unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Any material submitted must Include return postage.
The editorial contents of this magazine have not been published before, are protected by copy-
right and cannot be reprinted without the publisher’s permission. All stories In this magazine
are fiction. No actual persons are designated either by name or eharacter. Any similarity Is
coincidental.
STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC. • 79 SEVENTH AVE., NEW YORK
INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOLS
' > V-:V- - : ■ ,• -
I
80X 491 0-M,
SCRANTON, PENNA.
» Without dost or obligation, please send me a copy of your booklet, “Who Wins »
w and Why,” and full particulars about the course before which
I
have marked X: **
TECHNICAL AND INDUSTRIAL COURSES
O Air Brake
□ Contracting and Building
□ Marine Engines
□ Sanitary Engineering
□ Air Conditioning
□ Cotton Manufacturing
□ Mechanical Drafting
Q Sheet Metal Work
□ Airplane Drafting
CD Diesel Engines
□ Mechanical Engineering
G Ship Drafting
□ Architectural Drafting
O Electrical Drafting
O Mine Foreman
□ Shipfitting Q Shop Practice
□ Architecture
□ Electrical Engineering
□ Navigation
□ Steam Electrio □ Steam Engine*
□ Auto Engine Tune-up
G Electric Lighting
□ Patternmaking □ Plumbing
□ Steam Fitting
□ Auto Technician
□ Foundry man □ Heating
□ Practical Telephony
□ Structural Drafting
□ Aviation □ Aviation Meobanic
□ Heat Treatment of Metals
□ Public Works Engineering
O Structural Engineering
□ Boilermaking
□ Highway Engineering
□ Pulp and Paper Making
G Surveying and Mapping
□ Bridge Engineering
G House Planning
O Radio. General
□ Telegraph Engineering
□ Chemistry
□ Industrial Metallurgy
□ Radio Operating
□ Telephone Work
□ Civil Engineering
G Locomotive Engineer
□ Radio Servicing
□ Textile Designing
□ Coal Mining
Q Machinist
□ R. R. Section Foreman
□ Toolmaking □ Welding
□ Concrete Engineering
□ Management of Inventions
□ R. R. Signalman □ Refrigeration
□ Woolen Manufacturing
BUSINESS COURSES
□ Accounting □ Advertising
□ College Preparatory
□ First Year College
□ Railway Postal Clerk
□ Bookkeeping
□ Commercial
□ Foremanship Q French
□ Salesmanship
□ Business Correspondence
□ Commercial Illustrating
□ Good English
□ Secretarial □ Spanish
□ Business Management
□ Cost Accounting
G High School
□ Showcard and Sign Lettering
D Cartooning □ Civil Service
Q C. P. Accounting
□ Managing Men at Work
□ Traffic Management
HOME ECONOMICS COURSES
□ Advanced Dressmaking □ Home Dressmaking □ Tea Room and Cafeteria '
□ Foods and Cookery
D Professional Dressmaking and Designing
Management, Catering lj
Name
Ape Address
I
Olt«
State. „
Canadian residents send coupon to International Correspondence Schools Canadian .
Limited , Montreal . Canada *
British residents send coupon to /. C.
. 8., 7J Kinpsicav, London, IP. (
8, England >|
f SUCK UP. SILL. WHY NOT\
TRY AN INDUSTRY THAT'S 1
CROWING — WHERE THERE’S,
MORE OPPORTUNITY J
ILL ALWAYS BE A
FAILURE IF I STICK
TO MY PRESENT JOB
LOOK AT THIS -RADIO IS CERTAINLY
I DON’T THINK I COULD LEARN
MARYS RIGHT— I'M NOT
GETTING ANYWHERE. I
^ OUGHT TO TRY A NEW
FIELD TO MAKE
IT MORE MONEY
GROWING FAST — AND THE
NATIONAL RADIO
INSTITUTE SAYS THEY
"W -=5 rf TRAIN MEN FOR RADIO
i^3pl RIGHT AT HOME
OlrYS. ,M SPARE TIME m-
RADIO THAT WAY — BUT THEY'LL
SEND ME A SAMPLE LESSON
FREE. GUESS I’LL S'
MAIL THE COUPON
AND LOOK INTO I’M ' -
this S/mk: fS\ m
Find out horn Practical it is to
TRAIN AT HOME FOR
GOOD RADIO JOBS
JfaH Coupon “Sample Lesson FREE
LEARNING RADIO THIS WAY IS GREAT. |’U ENROLL
NOW. SOON I’LL BE TRAINED TO AUKS GOOD
MONEY FIXING RADIO SETS - - TO GET A
GOOD JOB IN A BROADCASTING.
STATION --OR A GOVERNMENT
CIVILIAN RADIO JOB - - JK
OR WIN EXTRA RANK
AND PAY
DRAFTED
J. E. SMITH
President
National Radio
Institute
Established
27 yoart
Here Is a quick way to
better pay. Radio often
you the opportunity to
tv ' UMi make $5, S10 a week ex-
tNueuPi Ira In spare time a few
A jHpA months from now and to
A \ prepare for good full
■ ilk time Badio Jobs paying
M la U p jp j 5 o a wee k. MAIL
COUPON. Get my Sam-
ple Lesson FREE. Ex-
amine It, read It — see
how easy It is to Under-
stand. See how I train
you at home in spare
time to be a Badio Op-
erator or Badio Technician.
WHY MANY RADIO TECHNICIANS
MAKE $30, $40, $50 A WEEK
The Badio repair business Is booming due
to the shortage of new sets, as the country’s
57,400,000 home and auto sets become older
thoy need more repairs, new tubes, parts,
opening new opportunities for full time and MAIL THE COUPON.
J iart time Radio Technicians to get good ~ -
obs, or to open thetr own Badio repair busi-
nesses. Radio Technicians and Operators
hold good Jobs in the country’s 882 Broad-
casting Stations and tn Aylatlon, Police,
Commercial, Marine and Government Radio.
Loud Speaker Systems give good Jobs to
msny. The Government Is catling for Ci-
vilian Badio Technicians and Operators.
Government orders for millions of dollars
worth of Radio equipment offer opportunities
in Radio factories. Men with Badio Train-
ing are in line for extra rank and pay in
the Army and Navy. Many Badio develop-
ments such as Television, held back by the
war. will make Badio a live-wire field for
the future.
Extra Pay in
Army, Navy, Too
Every man likely to go Into military service,
every soldier, sailor, marine, should mall
the Coupon Now I Learning Radio helps men
get extra rank, extra prestige, more Inter-
esting duty at pay up to several times a
private’s base pay. Also prepares for good
Radio Jobs after service ends. IT’S SMABT
TO TRAIN FOB BADIO NOW!
BEGINNERS SOON LEARN TO EARN
$5, $10 A WEEK EXTRA IN
SPARE TIME
Dpe to the boom In the Radio repair busi-
ness, practically every neighborhood offers
opportunities for a good part time Radio
Technician to make extra money fixing Ba-
dio sets. I give you special training to show
you how to start cashing In on these oppor-
tunities early. You get Radio parts and in-
structions for conducting experiments and
building test equipment to help you do bet-
ter, faster Radio repair work. My 50-50
method — half working with Radio parts I
send you, half studying lesson text* — makes
learning Radio at home Interesting, fas-
cinating. gives you valuable practical experi-
ence.
FIND OUT HOW I TRAIN YOU AT HOME
FOR GOOD PAY IN RADIO
I'll send you a
Sample Lesson and my 64-page book FREE.
Learn about my Course; the types of Jobs In
different branches of Radio. Read letters
from more than 100 men I have trained so
you can see what they are doing, earning.
MAIL THE COUPON In an envelope or
paste it on a penny postal.
SMITH, President, Dept. 2FD
National Radio Inatituta
Washington, D. C.
VOU SURELY KNOW]
RADIO. MINE
NEVER SOUNDED!
BETTER
r THANKS. IVE BEEN STUDYING
1 only a few months and
I'M ALREADY MAKING
[ money in
I MY SPARE
I TIME. THAT5 1
$K> EXTRA
I'm* WEEK
oh aiu_ ran so glad
YOU SENT FOR THAT
FREE LESSON AND
PROVED TO YOUR-
SELF THAT YOU
COULD LEARN
RADIO AT Home ,
YES. I HAVE A GOOD
TUU. TIME RADIO
JOB NOW— AND A
BRIGHT FUTURE
AHEAD IN RADIO
$
MR. J. E. SMITH, President, Dept 2FD
NATIONAL RADIO INSTITUTE, Washington,
D. C.
Sample Lesson and 64 -page
Mall me FREE, without obligation
mp
MO
book “Rich Rewards
Write plainly.)
tn Radio.'
Salesman
Will
call.
AE(
Name
Address
City...,
State
2FR
0
DIODE TO PENTAGRID
The klystron tube, I’ve been informed, is now
obsolete — displaced from its pre-eminence as a
generator of ultrashort radio waves by a new
device. That’s a rather interesting thought for
several reasons; in the first place, it means some-
thing decidedly better must have been perfected.
The klystron, while capable of generating waves
of a shortness not before attainable with any effec-
tive power, had two or three serious drawbacks.
An actual klystron appeared to the layman to be
a junior plumber’s practice layout, with pipe of
all sizes from five-inch drains down to one-half-
inch copper tube. It required a constantly func-
tioning vacuum pump usually, which added to the
mechanical complexity. And it did not have sharp
tuning capacity. It worked in the ultrashort
waves, but the spread of its tuning was great
enough to include about as broad a band of fre-
quencies as the entire commercial broadcast band.
The owner of a broadcast receiver of comparable
selectivity would never miss a thing — he’d be sure
to get all four networks and the police calls at
the same time.
That breadth of band was not useless in the
ultrashort radio spectrum simply because of the
enormously increased range of frequencies in-
volved. But it still wasn’t desirable.
The new device was invented by Americans
during the period of national-defense work; it
was not published in international scientific jour-
nals. America’s national offense work has it now;
the Axis has the klystron to play with. The dif-
ference is somewhat comparable to the difference
between an original de Forest audion and a mod-
ern super-control beam-power amplifier.
The rapid obsolescence of radio tubes — klystron
or of the more usual variety — is rather startling
if you have had no occasion to follow the improve-
ment of tube design since the days when most
radio sets were homemade, worked on “A,” “B”
and “C” batteries, or the early “battery elimina-
tors.”
The earliest forerunner of the electron tube was
the hot-filament-and-plate, the diode tube. Thomas
Edison reported the discovery that a heated fila-
ment in an evacuated bulb near a cold metal plate
would retain a positive charge, but not a negative
charge. The “Edison Effect” is the basis of the
rectifier tube. Lee de Forest added the third
element, the all-important grid that made the
rectifer into an amplifier. With that immensely
important addition, the radio oscillator, amplifier
and transmiting tube became possible. It made
radio telephones possible, where only radio-
telegraphy had been before.
The essentials of the three-element triode re-
mained from the beginning of radiotelephony to
the early days of battery eliminators for home
radios. There were many improvements in the
three electrodes, but no fundamental change.
Then the changes really started. Alternating
current sets had to be developed; it was an ob-
vious necessity for commercial development. Rec-
tifier tubes could convert high-voltage A. C. to
high-voltage, pulsating D. C. Banked paper con-
densers and iron-core choke coils could smooth
out the pulses to a humless D. C. in quantities
enough to handle the plate current requirements —
to eliminate the B battery. But the several ampere
demands of the filaments required enormous con-
denser and choke coils if the A battery were to be
eliminated. The heater-type A. C. tube was de-
veloped; if the filament heated and cooled sixty
times a second, you naturally got hum in the set.
But if it took forty-five seconds for the electron-
emiter to heat up, the heat-and-cool cycle was
smoothed out completely. Out went the A bat-
tery.
The real need then was to develop an amplifier
that could really amplify. The old 201-A of fond
memory had an amplification factor of half a
dozen times or so; if you tried for more ampli-
fication, the capacitance effect between the grid
and the plate of the tube itself would start to
play merry hob; it would oscillate with all the
vigor and howl of a telephone of the day when
the earphone was put against the mouthpiece.
The tetrode — four-element — tube put a screen-
ing grid between the plate and the original grid.
The first grid could still control the flow of elec-
trons, but the screen-grid cut off the condenser
effect between it and the plate. The amplification
usable went sky-high. Some of the tetrode tubes
will amplify more than seven hundred times.
But in ranges like that, working on radio fre-
quencies, that amplification ran into a new trouble;
electrons passing the screen-grid would tend to
accumulate in the space between the plate and
screen-grid, forming a little cloud of electron-gas
— a highly repellent sort of cloud that interfered
with the operation of the tube. So a third grid
— the suppressor grid — turned the tube into a five-
DIODE TO PENTAGRID
7
element pentode. Available amplification, with
the third grid draining away the electron-gas
cloud, went up over the one-thousand-times mark.
With amplification factors of that order, it
didn’t take many tubes to turn a radio signal into
something you could hear. Even the tiny signal
of a loop antenna a foot across could be amplified
to a terrific extent and skimmed for its music con-
tent. And the manufacturers were — hey, presto!
— back to batteries again. Portable sets with heave
enough to push a loud speaker were possible. But
that meant a return to filaments instead of heated
cathodes — little filaments that took a minimum of
current from a dry-cell “A” battery, preferably a
single-cell dry battery. And compactness. And
tubes that delivered full power on ninety volts
of plate current instead of two hundred fifty volts
of stepped-up, rectified and filtered A. C. Also —
since superhetrodyne circuits were most common
— a multifunction tube doing two or more things
at once was useful. By putting in two successive,
separate control grids, a screen-grid and a sup-
pressor grid between filament-cathode and plate,
the triumph of the pentagrid converter was at-
tained. It takes the place of two modern, or six
old-style tubes, and uses only one filament — one
and a half volts and five hundredths of an ampere.
Then there is the neat system of wrapping up
three tubes in one bottle — saving a lot of space,
considerable filament drain, and producing an
octopus-armed, super-goldbergian achievement of
beautiful ingenuity. The 1D8-GT type also draws
one and a half volts or so, and one tenth of an
ampere for the filament. That filament really has
a job. It’s the filament end of a diode-type tube
that can be used as a detector tube; the filament
of a triode — improved type with an amplification
factor of twenty-five — that can serve as the first
stage of audio amplification, and the filament for
a pentode-type high-power amplifier as a final
power output stage. One more tube for the half
dozen left-over functions of a modern portable,
and you’ve got a radio set. Three tuber, sure —
but any one of those contraptions will take on
a whole six-tube deluxe neutrodyne of the “bat-
tery eliminator” days.
For the cabinet-type sets they have a nice assort-
ment of combined and cross-integrated affairs,
too. And methods of twisting an electron stream
into highly functional knots. The super-control
type has a non-uniform control grid that succeeds
in amplifying weak signals more than strong sig-
nals — and hence minimizing distortion due to
overloading. On the other hand, for some pur-
poses, it is desirable to amplify strong signals
more than yreak signals — volume expansion to
make a phonograph reproduce the range of sound
intensities the symphony orchestra actually pro-
duced, and which the record’s grooves cannot
handle. There’s a tube for that job.
For scientific work aside from radio broadcast
pickups, other special tube-types have been de-
veloped. The greenish “magic eye” tube, used as
a tuning indicator on some receiving sets can serve
as a hypersensitive sort of galvanometer in a scien-
tific laboratory; the narrowing or widening of the
shadow area cutting across the green-glowing
fluorescent screen of the tube is exceedingly sen-
sitive to slight changes in current values.
In many of the glass tubes now made, the control-
grid lead is brought out of the top of the tube,
not out through the base. For radio and similar
high-frequency work, this has the advantage of
reducing the condenser-effect between the lead-in
wires to plate and grid. In much scientific work,
it has the immense advantage that, when working
with minute currents and very high resistance
circuits, the leakage of current between the grid
and cathode leads of the tube itself is enormously
reduced. For instance, one of the standard photo-
electric cell circuits used for accurate measure-
ment of light intensity, calls for a resistance of
100,000,000 ohms in series with the grid of the first-
stage amplifier tube. A little moisture condensed
on the base of the tube could, if the grid lead ran
in that way, change that 100,000,000 ohm resistance
as much as fifty percent, with disastrous results
on the accuracy of the measurements.
Then there are voltage-regulator tubes, one of
the great blessings of the electronics worker’s life.
The slight dimming of the lights when your re-
frigerator or oil-burner turns itself on isn’t bother-
some ; when a research worker is trying to measure
a current of ten-millionth of an ampere by means of
an amplifier it drives him frantic. Every electric
toaster, oil-burner, and particularly that unbeloved
guy down the hall who’s doing magnetic research
and draws ten kilowatts from the lines every time
he turns his gadget on. The voltage on the lines is
not 117.32 as it should be — it’s 117 plus or minus
enough to make measurements hopeless. But a vol-
tage-regulator tube circuit can tie it down on the
nose and keep it under control. Accurate, repro-
ducible measurements of a billionth of an ampere
can be made.
The development of these special tubes, plus
the fact that smaller, more compact radio receivers
can be made if a new type tube is designed for
the circuit, instead of a circuit designed for avail-
able tubes, has led to difficulties, though.
So many tubes were designed for sets of special
make that there are too many tube-types of only
slightly varying characteristics. The present need
for conservation of material, manufacturing power,
and skilled labor has brought about the discon-
tinuance of several hundred different types of
tubes.
Among them, the old 201-A has died at last.
The Editor.
/
Ellery Queen is one of the famous
names in radio.
Steve Fisher's movie, "I WAKE UP
SCREAMING" broke box-office rec-
ords.
Frank Gruber's books are acknowledged best-sellers.
WE RE HAVING A
All three of these masters of mystery appear in the
NEW Street & Smith
ALL FICTION DETECTIVE STORIES, 1942
1
1
The stories, selected from the best
we've published, include:
^ FROM THE AIR
HOUSE OF HAUNTS, by Ellery Queen
THE MURDER GUN, by Frank Gruber
THE MONSTER, by Steve Fisher
THE WHISPERING SKULL, by William E. Barrett
THE VENGEFUL DANE, by Walter Ripperger
KILLER'S CARNIVAL, by Edward Ronns
HEX ON HORSEBACK, by Norbert Davis
OFF THE SCREEN
BETWEEN BOOR COVERS
Five complete, book-length novels, two novelettes!
At twenty-five cents, this is the greatest detective-
fiction value in town.
#J
411 Fiction DETECTIVE Stories
ON SALE AT ALL NEWSSTANDS 25c
<*<•
Hk'
IF YOUR DEALER CANNOT SUPPLY YOU, FILL
OUT THE COUPON.
ALL FICTION DETECTIVE STORIES
79 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
Inclosed is a quarter (this offer good in U, S. only.) Kindly
send me my copy of ALL FICTION DETECTIVE STORIES, 1942.
NAME
ADDRESS
CITY
STATE
9
• The Secret Weapon! We heard about
it, were threatened with it — but never
saw it. i Van Vogt has an answer here, the
secret of Hitler's secret weapon — a secret
that Hitler himself never knew, and,
even knowing, could never hope to use —
How the file, known as Secret Six, was smuggled
out of the German Reich and brought to the
United States is one of those dramatic true tales
of World War II that will some day be told. It
involves people inside Germany who would be
executed if their part and the process ‘were dis-
covered.
All the extraordinary documents of this file, it
should be emphasized, are definitely in the hands
of our own authorities; and investigations are
proceeding apace. Further revelations of a grand
order may be expected as soon as one of the ma-
chines is built.
The documents date from 1937, and will be given
chronologically, without reference to their in-
dividual importance. But first, it is of surpassing
interest to draw attention to the following news
item, which appeared in the New York Sun,
Illustrated by Kramer
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
10
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
March 25, 1941, on page 17. At that time it ap-
peared to have no significance whatsoever. The
item:
GERMAN CREEK BECOMES RIVER
London, March 24 (delayed): A Royal Air Force
reconnaissance pilot today reported that a creek in north-
ern Prussia, marked on the map as the Gribe Creek, has
become a deep, swift river overnight. It is believed that
an underground waterway burst its bounds. Several vil-
lages in the path of the new river showed under water.
No report of the incident has yet been received from
Berlin.
There never was any report from Berlin. It
should again be pointed out that the foregoing
news item was published in 1941 ; the documents
which follow date from 1937, a period of four
years. Four years of world-shaking history:
April 10, 1937
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject 10731— 127— S— 6
1. Inclosed is the report of the distinguished
scientific board of inquiry which sat on the case
of Herr Professor Johann Kenrube.
2. As you will see, the majority of the board
oppose emphatically the granting of State funds
for what they describe as a “fantastic scheme*!’
They deny that an all-vacuum environment for
energy would produce the results claimed, and
refute utterly the number philosophy involved.
Number, they say, is a function, not a reality, or
else modern physics has no existence.
3. The minority report of Herr Professor Gou-
reit, while thought-provoking, can readily be dis-
missed when it is remembered that Goureit, like
Kenrube and Kenrube’s infamous brother, was
once a member of the SPD.
4. The board of inquiry, having in mind Hitler’s
desire that no field of scientific inquiry should be
left unexplored, and as a generous gesture to
Goureit, who has a very great reputation and a
caustic pen, suggested that, if Kenrube could ob-
tain private funds for his research, he should be
permitted to do so.
5. Provided Geheime Staats Polizei do not ob-
ject, I concur. G. L.
Author’s Note: The signature G. L. has been
difficult to place. There appears to have been sev-
eral secretaries of the Bureau of Physics Research,
following one another in swift order. The best
accounts identify him as Gottfried Lesser, an ob-
scure B. Sc. who early joined the Nazi party, and
for a period was its one and only science expert.
Geheime Staats Polizei is of course Gestapo.
April 17, 1937
MEMO
From Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
If Kenrube can find the money, let him go
ahead. H. concurs, provided supervision be strict.
K. Reissel.
COPY ONLY June 2, 1937
From Co-ordinator Dept., Deutsche Bank
To Gestapo
The marginally noted personages have recently
transferred sums totaling Reichsmarks four mil-
lion five hundred thousand to the account of Herr
Professor Johann Kenrube. For your information
please. J. Pleup
June 11, 1937
From Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Your 10731— 127— S— 6
Per your request for further details on the pri-
vate life of J. Kenrube since the death of his
brother in June, 1934, in the purge:
We quote from a witness, Peter Braun: “I was
in a position to observe Herr Professor Kenrube
very closely when the news was brought to him
at Frankfort-on-Main that August, his brother,
had been executed in the sacred blood purge.
“Professor Kenrube is a thin, good-looking man
with normally a very wan face. This face turned
dark with color, then drained completely of blood.
He clenched his hands and said: ‘They’ve mur-
dered him!’ Then he rushed off to his room.
“Hours later, I saw him walking, hatless, hair
disarrayed, along the bank of the river. People
stopped to look at him, but he did not see them.
He was very much upset that first day. When I
saw him again the next morning, he seemed to
have recovered. He said to me:
“‘Peter, we must all suffer for our past mis-
takes. The tragic irony of my brother’s death is
that he told me only a week ago in Berlin that he
had been mistaken in opposing the Nationalsozia-
listiche Arbeitspartei. He was convinced they were
doing great things. I am too much of a scientist
ever to have concerned myself with politics.’ ”
You will note, Excellency, that this is very much
the set speech of one who is anxious to cover up .
the indiscreet, emotional outburst of the previous
day. However, the fact that he was able to pull
himself together at all seems to indicate that
affection of any kind is but shallowly rooted in
his character. Professor Kenrube returned to his
laboratories in July, 1934, and has apparently been
hard at work ever since.
There has been some discussion here concerning
Kenrube, by the psychologists attached to this of-
fice; and the opinion is expressed, without dissent.
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
11
that in three years the professor will almost have
forgotten that he had a brother.
K. Reissel
MEMO AT BOTTOM OF LETTER:
I am more convinced than ever that psycholo-
gists should be seen and not heard. It is our duty
to watch every relative of every person whose life
is, for any reason, claimed by the State. If there
are scientific developments of worth-while nature
in this Kenrube affair, let me know at once. His
attainments are second to none. A master plan of
precaution is in order. Himmler
October 24, 1937
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Professor Johann Kenrube
The following report has been received from
our Special Agent Seventeen:
“Kenrube has hired the old steel and concrete
fortress. Gribe Schloss, overlooking the Gribe
Creek, which flows into the Eastern Sea. This
ancient fortress was formerly located on a small
hill in a valley. The hill has subsided, however,
and is now virtually level with the valley floor.
We have been busy for more than a month mak-
ing the old place livable, and installing ma-
chinery.”
For your information, Agent Seventeen is a
graduate in physics of Bonn University. He was
for a time professor of physics at Muenchen. In
view of the shortage of technicians, Kenrube has
appointed Seventeen his chief assistant.
G. L.
May 21, 1938
From Science Branch, Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject 10731— 127— S— 6
H. wants to know the latest developments in the
Kenrube affair. Why the long silence? Exactly
what is Professor Kenrube trying to do, and what
progress has he made? Surely, your secret agent
has made reports. K. Reissel
June 3, 1938
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Professor Johann Kenrube
Your letter of the 21st ultimo has been passed
on to me. The inclosed precis of the reports of
our Agent Seventeen will bring you up to date.
Be assured that we are keeping a careful watch
on the developments in this case. So far, nothing
meriting special attention has arisen.
G. L.
PRECIS OF MONTHLY REPORTS OF
AGENT SEVENTEEN
Our agent reports that Professor Kenrube’s first
act was to place him, Seventeen, in charge of the
construction of the machine, thus insuring that
he will have the most intimate knowledge of the
actual physical details.
When completed, the machine is expected to
occupy the entire common room of the old fortress,
largely because every section is being inclosed in
a vacuum. In this connection, Seventeen describes
how four electric motors were removed from Ken-
rube’s old laboratories, their force fields skillfully
and peculiarly surrounded by a vacuum, with the
result that a ninety-four-percent improvement in
their efficiency resulted.
Seventeen goes on to state that orders for parts
have been placed with various metal firms but, be-
cause of the defense program, deliveries are ex-
tremely slow. Professor Kenrube has resigned
himself to the possibility that his invention will
not be completed until 1944 or 45.
Seventeen, being a scientist / in his own right,
has become interested in the machine. In view of
the fact that, if successful, it will insure measure-
less supplies of raw materials for our Reich, he
urges that some effort be made to obtain priorities.
He adds that he has become quite friendly with
Kenrube. He does not think that the Herr Pro-
fessor suspects how closely he is connected with
the Bureau of Science.
June 4, 1938.
From Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject 10731— 127— S— 6
Raw materials! Why was I not informed before
that Kenrube was expecting to produce raw ma-
terials? Why did you think I was taking an in-
terest in this case, if not because Kenrube is a
genius of the first rank; and therefore anything
he does must be examined with the most minute
care? But — raw materials! Are you all mad over
there, or living in a world of pleasant dreams?
You will at once obtain from Herr Professor
Kenrube the full plans, the full mathematics, of
his work, with photographs of the machine as far
as it has progressed. Have your scientists pre-
pare a report for me as to the exact nature of the
raw materials that Kenrube expects to obtain. Is
this some transmutation affair, or what is the
method?
Inform Kenrube that he must supply this in-
formation, or he will obtain no further materials.
If he satisfies our requirements, on the other hand,
there will be a quickening of supplies. Kenrube
is no fool. He will understand the situation.
As for your agent, Seventeen, I am at once send-
ing an agent to act as his bodyguard. Friendly
with Kenrube indeed! Himmler
12
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
June 28, 1938
From Gestapo
To Secretary, Bureau of Physics
Subject Secret Six
Have you received the report from Kenrube?
H. is most anxious to see this the moment it ar-
rives. K. Reissel
July 4, 1938
From Gestapo
To Secretary, Bureau of Physics
Subject Secret Six
What about the Kenrube report? Is it possible
that your office does not clearly grasp how im-
portant we regard this matter? We have recently
discovered that Professor Kenrube’s grandfather
once visited a very curious and involved revenge
on a man whom he hated years after the event that
motivated the hatred. Every conceivable precau-
tion must be taken to see to it that the Kenrube
machine can be duplicated, and the machine itself
protected utterly.
Please send the scientific report the moment it
is available. K. Reissel
July 4, 1938
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Professor Johann Kenrube
The report, for which you have been asking, has
come to hand, and a complete transcription is being
sent to your office under separate cover. As you
will see, it is very elaborately prepared; and I
have taken the trouble to have a precis made of
our scientific board’s analysis of the report for
your readier comprehension. G. L.
PRECIS OF SCIENTIFIC ANALYSIS OF
KENRUBE’S REPORT ON HIS INVEN-
TION
General Statement of Kenrube’s Theory: That
there are two kinds of space in the Universe,
normal and hyper-space.
Only in normal space is the distance between
star systems and galaxies great. It is essential
to the nature of things, to the unity of material
bodies, that intimate cohesion exist between every
particle of matter, between, for instance, the Earth
and the Universe as a whole.
Kenrube maintains that gravity does not explain
the perfect and wonderful balance, the singleness
of organism that is a galactic system. And that
the theory of relativity merely evades the issue
in stating that planets go around the Sun because
it is easier for them to do that than to fly off into
space.
Kenrube’s thesis, therefore, is that all the mat-
ter in the Universe conjoins according to a rigid
mathematical pattern, and that this conjunction
presupposes the existence of hyper-space.
Object of Invention: To bridge the gap through
hyper-space between Earth and any planet, or any
part of any planet. In effect, this means that it
would not be necessary to drill for oil in a remote
planet. The machine would merely locate the oil
stratum, and tap it at any depth; the oil would
flow from the orifice of the machine which, in the
case of the machine now under construction, is
ten feet in diameter.
A ten-foot flow of oil at a pressure of four
thousand feet a minute would produce approx-
imately six hundred thousand tons of oil every
hour.
Similarly, mining could be carried on simply by
locating the ore-bearing veins, and skimming from
them the purest ores.
It should be pointed out that, of the distin-
guished scientists who have examined the report,
only Herr Professor Goureit claims to be able to
follow the mathematics proving the existence of
hyper-space.
July 14, 1938
COPY ONLY
TRANSCRIPTION OF INTERVIEW BY
HERR HIMMLER OF PROFESSOR H.
KLEINBERG, CHAIRMAN OF THE
SCIENTIFIC COMMITTEE OF SCIENCE
BRANCH, GESTAPO, INVESTIGATING
REPORT OF HERR PROFESSOR JOHANN
KENRUBE
Q. You have studied the drawings and examined
the mathematics?
A. Yes.
Q. What is your conclusion?
A. We are unanimously agreed that some fraud
is being perpetrated.
Q. Does your verdict relate to the drawings of
the invention, or to the mathematics ex-
plaining the theory?
A. To both. The drawings are incomplete. A
machine made from those blueprints would
hum with apparent power and purpose, but
it would be a fraudulent uproar; the power
simply goes oftener through a vacuum en-
vironment before returning to its source,
Q. I have sent your report to Kenrube. His com-
ment is that almost the whole of modern
electrical physics is founded on some varia-
tion of electricity being forced through a
vacuum. What about that?
A. It is a half truth.
Q. What about the mathematics?
A. There is the real evidence. Since Descartes —
Q. Please abstain from using these foreign names.
A. Pardon me. Since Leibniz, number has been
a function, a variable idea. Kenrube treats
-V .... .V - - - - - c
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
13
of number as an existing thing. Mathe-
matics, he says, has living and being. You
have to be a scientist to realize how incredi-
ble, impossible, ridiculous such an idea is.
WRITTEN COMMENT ON THE ABOVE
I am not a scientist. I have no set ideas on the
subject of mathematics or invention. I am, how-
ever, prepared to accept the theory that Kenrube
is withholding information, and for this reason
order that:
1. All further materials for the main machine
be withheld.
2. Unlimited assistance be given Kenrube to
build a model of his machine in the great govern-
ment laboratories at Dresden. When, and not
until, this model is in operation, will permission be
given for the larger machine to be completed.
3. Meanwhile, Gestapo scientists will examine
the machine at Gribe Schloss, and Gestapo con-
struction experts will, if necessary, reinforce the
building, which must have been damaged by the
settling of the hill on which it stands.
4. Gestapo agents will hereafter guard Gribe
Schloss.
Himmler
December 2, 1938
From
Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To
Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject
Herr Professor Kenrube
Inclosed is the quarterly precis of the reports
of our Agent Seventeen.
For your information, please.
August Buehnen
Author’s Note : Buehnen, a party man who was
educated in one of the Nazi two-year Science
Schools, replaced G. L. as secretary of the Bureau
of Physics about September, 1938.
It is not known exactly what became of Lesser,
who was a strong party man. There was a Briga-
dier General G. Lesser, a technical expert attached
to the Fuehrer’s headquarters at Smolensk. This
man, and there is some evidence that he is the
same, was killed in the first battle of Moscow.
QUARTERLY PRECIS OF REPORTS OF
AGENT SEVENTEEN
1. Herr Professor Kenrube is working hard on
the model. He has at no time expressed bitterness
over the enforced cessation of work on the main
machine, and apparently accepts readily the ex-
planation that the government cannot afford to
allot him material until the model proves the value
of his work.
2. The model will have an orifice of six inches.
This compares with the ten-foot orifice of the
main machine. Kenrube’s intention is to employ
it for the procuration of liquids, and believes that
the model will of itself go far to reducing the oil
shortage in the Reich.
3. The machine will be in operation sometime
in the summer of 1939. We are all eager and
excited.
February 7, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Gestapo
Subject Secret Six
The following precautions have been taken with
the full knowledge and consent of Herr Professor
Kenrube :
1. A diary in triplicate is kept of each day’s
progress. Two copies are sent daily to our office
here. As you know, the other copy is submitted
by us to your office.
2. Photographs are made of each part of the
machine before it is installed, and detailed plans
of each part are kept, all in triplicate, the copies
distributed as described above.
3. From time to time independent scientists are
called in. They are invariably impressed by Ken-
rube’s name, and suspicious of his mathematics and
drawings.
For your information, please.
August Buehnen
March 1, 1939
From Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
To Herr Heinrich Himmler, Gestapo
Subject The great genius, Herr Professor Ken-
rube
It is my privilege to inform your Excellency that
the world-shaking invention of Herr Professor
Johann Kenrube yesterday went into operation,
and has already shown fantastic results.
The machine is not a pretty one, and some effort
must be made to streamline future reproductions
of this model, with an aim toward greater mobility.
In its present condition, it is strung out over
the floor in a most ungainly fashion. Rough metal
can be very ugly.
Its most attractive feature is the control board,
which consists of a number of knobs and dials, the
operator of which, by an arrangement of mirrors,
can peer into the orifice, which is located on the
right side of the control board, and faces away
from it. (I do not like these awkward names,
orifice and hyper-space. We must find a great
name for this wonderful machine and its vital
parts.)
When Buehnen and I arrived, Professor Ken-
rube was busy opening and shutting little case-
ments in various parts of that sea of dull metal.
He took out and examined various items.
At eleven forty-five, Kenrube stationed himself
at the control board, and made a brief speech com-
paring the locator dials of the board to the dial on
a radio which tunes in stations. His dials, how-
14
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
ever, tuned in planets; and, quite simply, that is
what he proceeded to do.
It appears that the same planets are always on
exactly the same gradation of the main dial; and
the principle extends down through the controls
which operate to locate sections of planets. Thus
it is always possible to return to any point of any
planet. You will see how important this is.
The machine had already undergone its first
tests, so Kenrube now proceeded to turn to various
planets previously selected ; and a fascinating
show it was.
Gazing through the six-inch orifice is like look-
ing through a glassless window. What a great
moment it will be when the main machine is in
operation, and we can go through the ten-foot
orifice.
The first planet was a desolate, frozen affair,
dimly lighted by a remote red sun. It must have
been airless because there was a whistling sound,
as the air rushed out of our room into that frigid
space. Some of that deadly cold came trickling
through, and we quickly switched below the sur-
face of the planet.
Fantastic planet! It must be an incredible
heavy world; for it is a treasure house of the
heavier metals. Everywhere we turned, the soil
formation showed a shifting pattern of gold, silver,
zinc, steel, tin — thousands of millions of tons.
At Professor Kenrube’s suggestion, I put on a
pair of heavy gloves, and removed a four-inch rock
of almost pure gold. It simply lay there in a
gray shale, but it was so cold that the moisture
of the room condensed on it, forming a thick hoar-
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
15
frost. How many ages that planet must have
frozen, for the cold to penetrate so far below the
surface!
The second planet was a vast expanse of steam-
ing swamps and tropical forests, much as Earth
must have been forty million years ago. However,
we found not a single trace of animal, insect,
reptile or other nonfloral life.
The third, fourth and fifth planets were devoid
o,f any kind of life, either plant or animal. The
sixth planet might have been Earth, except that
its green forests, its rolling plains showed no sign
of animal or intelligent life. But it is on this
planet that oil had been located by Kenrube and
Seventeen in their private tests. When I left, a
pipe line, previously rigged up, had been attached
to the orifice, and was vibrating with oil at the
colossal flow speed of nearly one thousand miles
per hour.
This immense flow has now been continuous for
more than twenty-four hours; and I understand it
has already been necessary to convert the great
water reservoir in the south suburbs to storage
space for oil.
It may be noveau riche to be storing oil at great
inconvenience, when the source can be tapped at
will. But I personally will not be satisfied until
we have a number of these machines in action. It
is better to be childish and have the oil than logical
and have regrets.
I cannot conceive what could go wrong now.
Because of our precautions, we have numerous and
complete plans of the machine. It is necessary, of
course, to ensure that our enemies do not learn our
secret, and on this point, I would certainly appre-
ciate your most earnest attention.
The enormous potentialities of this marvelous
instrument expand with every minute spent in
thinking about it. I scarcely slept a wink last
night.
March 1, 1939
From Chief, Criminal Investigation Branch,
Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Secret Six
Will you please inform this office without delay
of the name of every scientist or other person who
has any knowledge, however meager, of the Ken-
rube machine?
Reinhart Heydrich
Author’s Note: This is the Heydrich, hand-
some, ruthless Heydrich, who in 1941 bloodily re-
pressed the incipient Czech revolt, and who, now
that the notorious Himmler is Minister of Interior,
has succeeded his former master as head of the
Gestapo.
March 2, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To R. Heydrich
Subject Secret Six
The list of names for which you asked is here-
with attached. August Buehnen
COMMENT AT BOTTOM OF LETTER
In view of the importance of this matter, some
changes should be made in the precautionary plan
drawn up a few months ego with respect to these
personages. Two, not one of our agents, must be
assigned to keep secret watch on each of these
individuals. The rest of the plan can be con-
tinued as arranged with one other exception: In
the event that any of these men suspect that they
are being watched, I must be informed at once.
I am prepared to explain to such person, within
limits, the truth of the matter, so that he may
not be personally worried. The important thing
is, we do not want these people suddenly to make
a run for the border. Himmler
SPECIAL DELIVERY
PERSONAL
March 2, 1939
From Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
To Herr Heinrich Himmler
Subject Professor Johann Kenrube
I this morning informed the Fuehrer of the
Kenrube machine. He became very excited. The
news ended his indecision about the Czechs. The
army will move to occupy.
For your advance information, please.
March 13, 1939
From Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject The Dresden Explosion
The incredibly violent explosion of the Ken-
rube model must be completely explained. A
board of discovery should be set up at Dresden
with full authority. I must be informed day by
day of the findings of this court.
This is a very grim business. Your agent, Seven-
teen, is among those missing. Kenrube is alive,
which is very suspicious. There is no question of
arresting him; the only thing that matters is to
frustrate future catastrophes of this kind. His
machine has proved itself so remarkable that he
must be conciliated at all costs until we can be
absolutely sure that everything is going right.
Let me know everything. Himmler
PRELIMINARY REPORT OF AUGUST
BUEHNEN
When I arrived at the scene of the explosion, I
noticed immediately that a solid circle, a remarka-
bly precise circle of the wall of the fifth floor of
16
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
the laboratories — where the Kenrube machine is
located — had been sliced out as by some incon-
ceivable force.
Examining the edges of this circle, I verified
that it could not have been heat which performed
so violent an operation. Neither the brick nor
the exposed steel were in any way singed or
damaged by fire.
The following facts have been given to me of
what transpired :
It had been necessary to cut the flow of oil be-
cause of the complete absence of further storage
space. Seventeen, who was in charge — Professor
Kenrube during this whole time was at Gribe
Schloss working on the main machine — was
laboriously exploring other planets in search of
rare metals.
The following is an extract from my interview
with Jacob Schmidt, a trusted laboratory assistant
in the government service:
Q. You say, Herr — (Seventeen) took a piece of
ore to the window to examine it in the light
of the Sun?
A. He took it to the window, and stood there
looking at it.
Q. This placed him directly in front of the orifice
of the machine?
A. Yes.
Q. Who else was in front of the orifice?
A. Dobelmanns, Minster, Freyburg, Tousand-
freind.
Q These were all fellow assistants of yours?
A. Yes.
Q. What happened then?
A. There was a very loud click from the machine,
followed by a roaring noise.
Q. Was anyone near the control board?
A. No, sir.
Q. It was an automatic action of the machine?
A. Yes. The moment it happened we all turned
to face the machine.
Q. All of you? Herr — (Seventeen), too?”
A. Yes, he looked around with a start, just as
Minster cried out that a blue light was
coming from the orifice.
Q. A blue light. What did this blue light re-
place?
A. A soil formation of a planet, which we had
numbered 447-711-Gradation A-131-8, which
is simply its location on the dials. It was
from this soil that Herr — (Seventeen) had
taken the ore sample.
Q. And then, just like that, there was the blue
light?
A. Yes. And for a few instants, that was all
there was, the blue light, the strange roar-
ing sound, and us standing there half para-
lyzed.
Q. Then it flared forth?
A. It was terrible. It was such an intense blue
it hurt my eyes, even though I could only
see it in the mirror over the orifice. I have
not the faintest impression of heat. But
the wall was gone, and all the metal around
the orifice.
Q. And the men?
A. Yes, and the men, all five of them.
March 18, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Dresden Explosion
I am inclosing a precis of the report of the
Court of Inquiry, which has just come to hand.
The report will be sent on to you as soon as a
transcription has been typed.
For your information, please.
August Buehnen
PRECIS OF REPORT OF COURT OF IN-
QUIRY
1. It has been established: »
(a) That the destruction was preceded by a
clicking sound.
(b) That this click came from the machine.
(c) That the machine is fitted with automatic
finders.
2. The blue flame was the sole final cause of
the destruction.
3. No theory exists, or was offered, to explain
the blue light. It should be pointed out that Ken-
rube was not called to testify.
4. The death of Herr — (Seventeen) and of his
assistants was entirely due to the momentary im-
pulse that had placed them in the path of the blue
fire.
5. The court finds that the machine could have
been tampered with, that the click which preceded
the explosion could have been the result of some
automatic device previously set to tamper with
the machine. No other evidence of sabotage exists,
and no one in the room at the time was to blame
for the accident.
COPY ONLY
FOR MINISTRY OF SCIENCE
March 19, 1939
From Major H. L. Guberheit
To Minister for Air
Subject Destruction of plane, type JU-88
I have been asked to describe the destruction of
a plane, under unusual circumstances, as witnessed
by several hundred officers and men under my
command.
The JU-88 , piloted by Cadet Pilot Herman
Kiesler, was approaching the runway for a landing,
and was at the height of about five hundred feet
when there was a flash of intense blue — and the
plane vanished.
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
17
I cannot express too strongly the violence, the
intensity, the blue vastness of the explosion. It
was titanic. The sky was alive with light reflec-
tions. And though a bright sun was shining, the
entire landscape grew brilliant with that blue tint.
There was no sound of explosion. No trace was
subsequently found of this machine, no wreckage.
The time of the accident was approximately ten
thirty a. m., March 13th.
There has been great uneasiness among the
students during the past week.
For your information, please.
H. L. Guberheit
Major, C. Air Station 473
COMMENT AT BOTTOM OF LETTER
Excellency — I wish most urgently to point out
that the time of this unnatural accident coincides
with the explosion of “blue” light from the orifice
of the Kenrube machine.
I have verified that the orifice was tilted ever so
slightly upward, and that the angle would place
the beam at a height of five hundred feet near the
airport in question.
The staggering feature is that the airport re-
ferred to is seventy-five miles from Dresden. The
greatest guns ever developed can scarcely fire that
distance, and yet the incredible power of the blue
energy showed no diminishment. Literally, it
disintegrated metal and flesh — everything.
I do not dare to think what would have hap-
pened if that devastating flame had been pointed
not away from but at the ground.
Let me have your instructions at once, because
here is beyond doubt the weapon of the ages.
lAugust Buehnen
March 19, 1939
From Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Secret Six
In perusing the report of the inquiry board, we
were amazed to note that Professor Kenrube was
not questioned in this matter.
Be assured that there is no intention here of
playing up to this man. We absolutely require an
explanation from him. Send Herr Buehnen to see
Kenrube and instruct him to employ the utmost
firmness if necessary. K. Reissel
March 21, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Dresden Explosion
As per your request, I talked with Kenrube at
Gribe Scbloss.
Tt was the second time I had seen him, the first
time being when I accompanied his Excellency, the
Minister of Science, to Dresden to view the model;
and I think I should point out here that Herr
Professor Kenrube’s physical appearance is very
different from what I had been led to expect from
the description recorded in File Secret Six. I
had pictured him a lean, fanatic-eyed type. He IS
tall, but he must have gained weight in recent
years, for his body is well filled out, and his face
and eyes are serene, with graying hair to crown the
effect of a fine, scholarly middle-aged man.
It is unthinkable to me that this is some mad-
man plotting against the Reich.
The first part of his explanation of the blue light
was a most curious reference to the reality of
mathematics, and, for a moment, I almost thought
he was attempting to credit the accident to this
actuality of his incomprehensible number system.
Then he went on to the more concrete statement
that a great star must have intruded into the plane
of the planet under examination. The roaring
sound that was heard, he attributed to the fact
that the component elements of the air in the
laboratory were being sucked into the Sun, and
destroyed.
The Sun, of course, would be in a state of
balance all its own, and therefore would not come
into the room until the balance had been inter-
fered with by the air of the room.
(I must say my own explanation would be the
reverse of this : that is, the destruction of the air
would possibly create a momentary balance, a bar-
rier, during which time nothing of the Sun came
into the room except light reflections. However,
the foregoing is what Kenrube said, and I presume
it is based on his own mathematics. I can only
offer it for what it is worth.)
Abruptly, the balance broke down. For a frac-
tion of an instant, then, before the model hyper-
space machine was destroyed, the intolerable
energies of a blue-white sun poured forth.
It would have made no difference if the airplane
that was caught in the beam of blue light had
been farther away from Dresden than seventy-five
miles — that measureless force would have reached
seven thousand five hundred miles just as easily,
or seventy-five thousand.
The complete absence of visible heat is no evi-
dence that it was not a sun. At forty million
degrees Fahrenheit, heat, as we know it, does not
exist.
The great man went on to say that he had pre-
viously given some thought to the danger from
suns, and that in fact he was in the late mathe-
matical stage of developing an attachment that
would automatically reject bodies larger than ten
thousand miles in diameter.
In his opinion, efforts to control the titanic
energies of suns should be left to a later period,
and should be carried out on uninhabited planets
18
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
by scientists who have gone through the orifice,
and who have been then cut off from contact with
Earth. August Buehnen
COMMENT ATTACHED
Kenrube’s explanation sounds logical, and it
does seem incredible that he would meddle with
such forces, though it is significant that the orifice
was tilted “slightly upward.” We can dispense
with his advice as to when and how we should
experiment with sun energies. The extent of the
danger seems to be a momentary discharge of in-
conceivable forces, and then destruction of the
machine. If at the moment of discharge, the
orifice was slightly tilted toward London or New
York, and if a sufficient crisis existed, the loss of
one more machine would be an infinitesimal cost.
As for Kenrube’s fine, scholarly appearance, I
think Buehnen has allowed himself to be carried
away by the greatness of the invention. The
democrats of Germany are not necessarily mad-
men, but here as abroad they are our remorseless
enemies.
We must endeavor to soften Kenrube by psycho-
logical means.
I cannot forget that there is not now a working
model of the Kenrube machine in existence. Until
there is, all the fine, scholarly-looking men in the
world will not convince me that what happened
was entirely an accident.
The deadly thing about all this is that we have
taken an irrevocable step with respect to the
Czechs; and war in the west is now inevitable.
Himmler
May 1, 1939
From Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Secret Six
The Fuehrer has agreed to exonerate completely
August Kenrube, the brother of Herr Professor
Kenrube. As you will recall, August Kenrube was
killed in the sacred purge of June, 1934. It will
now be made clear that his death was an untimely
accident, and that he was a true German patriot.
This is in line with our psychological attack on
Professor Kenrube’s suspected anti-Nazism.
K. Reissel
June 17, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Professor Johann Kenrube
In line with our policy to make Kenrube realize
his oneness with the community of German peo-
ples, I had him address the convention of mathe-
maticians. The speech, of which I inclose a copy,
was a model one ; three thousand words of glowing
generalities, giving not a hint as to his true opin-
ions on anything. However, he received the ova-
tion of his life; and I think he was pleased in
spite of himself.
Afterward, I saw to it — without, of course, ap-
pearing directly — that he was introduced to
Fraulein Ilse Weber.
As you know, the Fraulein is university edu-
cated, a thoroughly mature, modern young woman;
and I am sure that she is merely taking on one of
the many facets of her character in posing to Ken-
rube as a young woman who has decided quite
calmly to have a child, and desires the father to
be biologically of the highest type.
I cannot see how any human male, normal or
abnormal, could resist the appeal of Fraulein
Weber. August Buehnen
July 11, 1939
From Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
To Secretary, Bureau of Physics
Subject Secret Six
Can you give me some idea when the Kenrube
machine will be ready to operate? What about
the duplicate machines which we agreed verbally
would be built without Kenrube’s knowledge?
Great decisions are being taken; conversations are
being conducted that will shock the world, and, in
•a general way, the leaders are relying on the Ken-
rube machine.
In this connection please submit as your own
some variations of the following memorandum. It
is from the Fuehrer himself, and therefore I need
not stress its urgency. K. Reissel
MEMORANDUM OF ADOLF HITLER
Is it possible to tune the Kenrube machine to
our own earth?
July 28, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Secret Six
I inclose the following note from Kenrube,
which is self-explanatory. We have retained a
copy. August Buehnen
NOTE FROM KENRUBE
Dear Herr Buehnen:
The answer to your memorandum is yes.
In view of the international anxieties of the
times, I offer the following suggestions as to
weapons that can be devised from the hyper-space
machine :
1. Any warship can be rendered noncombatant
at critical moments by draining of its oil tanks.
2. Similarly, enemy oil storage supplies can be
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
19
drained at vital points. Other supplies can be
blown up or, if combustible, set afire.
3. Troops, tanks, trucks and all movable war
materials can be transported to any point on the
globe, behind enemy lines, into cities, by the sim-
ple act of focusing the orifice at the desired des-
tination — and driving it and them through. I need
scarcely point out that my machine renders rail-
way and steamship transport obsolete. The world
shall be transformed.
4. It might even be possible to develop a highly
malleable, delicately adjusted machine, which can
drain the tanks of airplanes in full flight.
5. Other possibilities, too numerous to mention,
suggest themselves with the foregoing as a basis.
Kenrube
COMMENT ATTACHED
This machine is like a dream. With it, the
world is ours, for what conceivable combination of
enemies could fight an army that appeared from
nowhere on their flank, in the centers of their
cities, in London, New York, in the Middlewest
plains of America, in the Ural Mountains, in the
Caucasus? Who can resist us?
K. Reissel
ADDITIONAL COMMENT
My dear Reissel:
Your enthusiasm overlooks the fact that the
machine is still only in the building stage. What
worries me is that our hopes are being raised to a
feverish height — what greater revenge could there
be than to lift us to the ultimate peak of confi-
dence, and then smash it in a single blow.
Every day that passes we are involving ourselves
more deeply, decisions are being taken from which
there is already no turning back. When, oh, when
will this machine be finished?
H.
July 29, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Secret Six
The hyper-space machine at Gribe Schloss will
be completed in February, 1941. No less than five
duplicate machines are under construction, un-
known to Kenrube. What is done is that, when
he orders an installation for the Gribe Schloss
machine, the factory turns out five additional
units from the same plans.
In addition, a dozen model machines are being
secretly constructed from the old plans, but, as
they must be built entirely from drawings and
photographs, they will take, not less, but more
time to build than the larger machines.
August Buehnen
August 2, 1939
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Herr Heinrich Himmler
Subject Professor Johann Kenrube
I have just now received a telegram from
Fraulein Ilse Weber that she and the Herr Profes-
sor were married this morning, and that Kenrube
will be a family man by the middle of next
summer. August Buehnen
COMMENT WRITTEN BELOW
This is great news indeed. One of the most
dangerous aspects of the Kenrube affair was that
he was a bachelor without ties. Now, we have
him. He has committed himself to the future.
Himmler
FURTHER COMMENT
I have advised the Fuehrer, and our great armies
will move into Poland at the end of this month.
H.
August 8, 1939
From Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Secret Six
I have had second thought on the matter of
Fraulein Ilse Weber, now Frau Kenrube. In view
of the fact that a woman, no matter how intelli-
gent or objective, becomes emotionally involved
with the man who is the father of her children, I
would advise that Frau Kenrube be appointed to
some great executive post in a war industry. This
will keep her own patriotism at a high level, and
thus she will continue to be an exemplary influence
on her husband. Such influence cannot be over-
estimated. Himmler
January 3, 1940
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Secret Six
In glancing through the correspondence, I no-
tice that I have neglected to inform you that our
Agent Twelve had replaced Seventeen as Ken-
rube’s chief assistant.
Twelve is a graduate of Munich, and was for a
time attached to the General Staff in Berlin as a
technical expert.
In my opinion, he is a better man for our pur-
pose than was Seventeen, in that Seventeen, it
seemed to me, had toward the end a tendency to
associate himself with Kenrube in what might be
called a scientific comradeship, an intellectual fel-
lowship. He was in a mental condition where he
quite unconsciously defended Kenrube against our
suspicion.
Such a situation will not arise with Twelve. He
20
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
is a practical man to the marrow. He and Kenrube
have utterly nothing in common.
Kenrube accepted Twelve with an attitude of
what-does-it-matter-who-they-send. It was so no-
ticeable that it is now clear that he is aware that
these men are agents of ours.
Unless Kenrube has some plan of revenge which
is beyond all precautions, the knowledge that he
is being watched should exercise a restraint on
any impulses to evil that he may have.
August Buehnen
Author’s Note: Most of the letters written in
the year, 1940, were of a routine nature, consisting
largely of detailed reports as to the progress of
the machine. The following document, however,
was an exception:
December 17, 1940
From Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
To Herr Heinrich Himmler
Subject Secret Six
The following work has now been completed on
the fortress Gribe Schloss, where the Kenrube ma-
chine is nearing completion:
1. Steel doors have been fitted throughout.
2. A special, all-steel chamber has been con-
structed, from which, by an arrangement of mir-
rors, the orifice of the machine can be watched
without danger to the watchers.
3. This watching post is only twenty steps from
a paved road which runs straight up out of the
valley.
4. A cement pipe line for the transportation of
oil is nearing completion. August Buehnen
MEMO AT BOTTOM OF LETTER
To Reinhart Heydrich:
Please make arrangements for me to inspect per-
sonally the reconstructed Gribe Schloss. It is
Hitler’s intention to attend the official opening.
The plan now is to invade England via the Ken-
rube machine possibly in March, not later than
April. In view of the utter confusion that will
follow the appearance of vast armies in every
part of the country, this phase of the battle of
Europe should be completed by the end of April.
In May Russia will be invaded. This should
not require more than two months. The invasion
of the United States is set for July or August.
Himmler
January 31, 1941
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
Subject Secret Six
It will be impossible to complete the five extra
Kenrube machines at the same time as the machine
at Gribe Schloss. Kenrube has changed some of
the designs, and our engineers do not know how
to fit the sections together until they have studied
Kenrube’s method of connection.
I have personally asked Kenrube the reason for
the changes. His answer was that he was remedy-
ing weaknesses that he had noticed in the model.
I am afraid that we shall have to be satisfied with
this explanation, and complete the duplicate ma-
chines after the official opening, which is not now
scheduled until March 20th. The delay is due to
Kenrube’s experimentation with design.
If you have any suggestions, please let me hear
them. I frankly do not like this delay, but what
to do about it is another matter.
August Buehnen
February 3, 1941
From Chief, Science Branch, Gestapo
To Secretary, Bureau of Physics
Subject Secret Six
H. says to do nothing. He notes that you are
still taking the precaution of daily photographs,
and that your agent. Twelve, who replaced Seven-
teen, is keeping a diary in triplicate.
There has been a meeting of leaders, and this
whole matter discussed very thoroughly, with
special emphasis of critical analysis of the pre-
cautions taken, and of the situation that would
exist if Kenrube should prove to be planning
some queer revenge.
You will be happy to know that not a single
additional precaution was thought of, and that
our handling of the affair was commended.
K. Reissel
t- r „. „ February 18, 1941
From Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Secret Six
In view of our anxieties, the following informa-
tion, which I have just received, will be welcome:
Frau Kenrube, formerly our Ilse Weber, has re-
served a private room in the maternity ward of
the Prussian State Hospital for May 7th. This
will be her second child, another hostage to for-
tune by Kenrube. K. Reissel
COPY ONLY
MEMO
March 11, 1941
I have today examined Gribe Schloss and en-
virons, and found everything according to plan.
Himmler
March 14, 1941
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Herr Himmler, Gestapo
Subject Secret Six
You will be relieved* to know the reason for the
changes in design made by Kenrube.
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
21
The first reason is rather unimportant ; Kenrube
refers to the mathematical structure involved, and
states that, for his own elucidation, he designed
a functional instrument whose sole purpose was
to defeat the mathematical reality of the machine.
This is very obscure, but he has referred to it
before; so I call it to your attention.
The second reason is that there are now two
orifices, not one. The additional orifice is for
focusing. The following illustration will clarify
what I mean:
Suppose we had a hundred thousand trucks in
Berlin, which we wished to transfer to London.
Under the old method, these trucks would have
to be driven all the way to the Gribe Schloss be-
fore they could be transmitted.
With the new two-orifice machine, one orifice
would be focused in Berlin, the other in London.
The trucks would drive through from Berlin to
London.
Herr Professor Kenrube seems to anticipate our
needs before we realize them ourselves.
August Buehnen
March 16, 1941
From Gestapo
To Secretary, Bureau of Physics
Subject Secret Six
The last sentence of your letter of March 14th
to the effect that Kenrube seems to anticipate our
needs made me very uncomfortable, because the
thought that follows naturally is : Is he also
anticipating our plans?
I have accordingly decided at this eleventh hour
that we are dealing with a man who may be our
intellectual superior in every way. Have your
agent advise us the moment the machine has un-
dergone its initial tests. Decisive steps will be
taken immediately.
22
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
March 19, 1941
DECODED TELEGRAM
KENRUBE MACHINE WAS TESTED TO-
DAY AND WORKED PERFECTLY.
AGENT TWELVE
March 19, 1941
COPY ONLY
MEMO
v
To Herr Himmler:
This is to advise that Professor Johann Kenrube
was placed under close arrest, and has been re-
moved to Gestapo Headquarters, Berlin.
R. Heydrich
March 19, 1941
DECODED TELEGRAM
REPLYING TO YOUR TELEPHONE IN-
STRUCTIONS, WISH TO STATE ALL AUTO-
MATIC DEVICES HAVE BEEN REMOVED
FROM KENRUBE MACHINE. NONE
SEEMED TO HAVE BEEN INTERFERED
WITH. MADE PERSONAL TEST OF MA-
CHINE. IT WORKED PERFECTLY.
TWELVE
COMMENT WRITTEN BELOW
I shall recommend that Kenrube be retired under
guard to his private laboratories, and not allowed
near a hyper-space machine until after the con-
quest of the United States.
And with this, I find myself at a loss for further
precautions. In my opinion, all thinkable pos-
sibilities have been covered. The only dangerous
man has been removed from the zone where he
can be actively dangerous; a careful examination
has been made to ascertain that he has left no
automatic devices that will cause havoc. And,
even if he has, five other large machines and a
dozen small ones are nearing completion, and it
is impossible that he can have interfered with
them.
If anything goes wrong now, thoroughness is a
meaningless word. Himmler
Front
To '
Subject
March 21, 1941
Gestapo
Secretary, Bureau of Physics
Secret Six
Recriminations are useless. What I would like
to know is: What in God’s name happened?
Himmler
March 22, 1941
From Secretary, Bureau of Physics
To Herr Heinrich Himmler
Subject Secret Six
The reply to your question is being prepared.
The great trouble is the confusion among the wit-
nesses, but it should not be long before some kind
of coherent answer is ready.
Work is being rushed to complete the duplicate
machines on the basis of photographs and plans
that were made from day to day. I cannot see
how anything can be wrong in the long run.
As for Number One, shall we send planes over
with bombs? August Buehnen
March 23, 1941
COPY ONLY
MEMO
Received telephone call from Herr Himmler to
the effect that no bombs should be dropped. This
is a command transmitted from the Fuehrer.
A. B.
March 24, 1941
COPY ONLY
MEMO
From Detention Branch, Gestapo
The four agents, Gestner, Luslich, Heinreide
and Muemmer, who were guarding Herr Professor
Johann Kenrube report that he was under close
arrest at our Berlin headquarters until six p. m.,
March 21st. At six p. m., he abruptly vanished.
S. Duerner
COMMENT WRITTEN BELOW
Kenrube was at Gribe Schloss before two p. m.
March 21st. This completely nullifies the six p. m.
story. Place these scoundrels under arrest, and
bring them before me at eight o’clock tonight.
Himmler
COPY ONLY
EXAMINATION BY HERR HIMMLER OF
F. GESTNER
Q. Your name?
A. Gestner. Fritz Gestner. Long service.
Q. Silence. If we want to know your service,
we’ll check it in the records.
A. Yes, sir.
Q. That’s a final warning. You answer my ques-
tions, or I’ll have your tongue.
A. Yes, sir.
Q. You’re one of the stupid fools set to guard
Kenrube ?
A. I was one of the four guards, sir.
Q. Answer yes or no.
A. Yes, sir.
Q. What was your method of guarding Kenrube?
A. By twos. Two of us at a time were in the
great white cell with him.
Q. Why weren’t the four of you there?
A. We thought —
Q. You thought! Four men were ordered to
guard Kenrube and — By God, there’ll be
dead men around here before this night is
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
23
over. I want to get this clear : There was
never a moment when two of you were not
in the cell with Kenrube?
A. Always two of us.
Q. Which two were with Kenrube at the moment
he disappeared?
A. I was. I and Johann Luslich.
Q. Oh, you know Luslich by his first name. An
old friend of yours, I suppose?
A. No, sir.
Q. You knew Luslich previously, though?
A. I met him for the first time when we were
assigned to guard Herr Kenrube.
Q. Silence ! Answer yes or no. I’ve warned you
about that.
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Ah, you admit knowing him?
A. No, sir, I meant —
Q. Look here, Gestner, you’re in a very bad spot.
Your story is a falsehood on the face of it.
Tell me the truth. Who are your accom-
plices?
A. None, sir.
Q. You mean you were working this alone?
A. No, sir.
Q. You damned liar ! Gestner, we’ll get the truth
out of you if we have to tear you apart.
A. I am telling the truth. Excellency.
Q. Silence, you scum. What time did you say
Kenrube disappeared?
A. About six o’clock.
Q. Oh, he did, eh? Well, never mind. What was
Kenrube doing just before he vanished?
A. He was talking to Luslich and me.
Q. What right had you to talk to the prisoner?
A. Sir, he mentioned an accident he expected to
happen at some official opening somewhere.
Q. He what?
A. Yes, sir; and I was desperately trying to find
out where, so that I could send a warning.
Q. Now, the truth is coming. So you do know
about this business, you lying rat! Well,
let’s have the story you’ve rigged up.
A. The dictaphone will bear out every word.
Q. Oh, the dictaphone was on.
A. Every word is recorded.
Q. Oh, why wasn’t I told about this in the first
place?
A. You wouldn’t lis —
Q. Silence, you fool! By God, the co-operation
I get around this place. Never mind. Just
what was Kenrube doing at the moment he
disappeared?
A. He was sitting — talking.
Q. Sitting? You’ll swear to that?
A. To the Fuehrer himself.
Q. He didn’t move from his chair? He didn’t
walk over to an orifice?
A. I don’t know what you mean, Excellency.
Q. So you pretend, anyway. But that’s all for the
time being. You will remain under arrest.
Don’t think we’re through with you. That
goes also for the others.
Author’s Note: The baffled fury expressed by
the normally calm Himmler in this interview is one
indication of the dazed bewilderment that raged
through high Nazi circles. One can imagine the
accusation and counter accusation and then the
slow, deadly realization of the situation.
March 24, 1941
From Gestapo
To Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
Subject Secret Six
Inclosed is the transcription of a dictaphone
record, which was made by Professor Kenrube.
A careful study of these deliberate words, com-
bined with what he said at Gribe Schloss may re-
veal his true purpose, and may also explain the
incredible thing that happened.
I am anxiously awaiting your full report.
Himmler
TRANSCRIPTION OF DICTAPHONE REC-
ORD P-679-423-1, CONVERSATION OF PRO-
FESSOR JOHANN KENRUBE IN WHITE
CELL 26, ON 3/21/41
(Note: K. refers to Kenrube, G. to any of the
guards.)
K. A glass of water, young man.
G. I believe there is no objection to that. Here.
K. It must be after five.
G. There is no necessity for you to know the
time.
K. No, but the fact that it is late is very interest-
ing. You see, I have invented a machine.
A very queer machine it is going to seem
when it starts to react according to the laws
of real as distinct from functional mathe-
matics. You have the dictaphone on, I hope.
G. What kind of a smart remark is that?
K. Young man, that dictaphone had better be on.
I intend talking about my invention, and
your masters will skin you alive if it’s not
recorded. IS the dictaphone on?
G. Oh, I suppose so.
K. Good. I may be able to finish what I have to
say. I may not.
G. Don’t worry. You’ll be here to finish it. Take
your time.
K. I had the idea before my brother was killed in
the purge, but I thought of the problem
then as one of education. Afterward, I saw
is as revenge. I hated the Nazis and all they
stood for.
G. Oh, you did, eh? Go on.
K. My plan after my brother’s murder was to
. build for the Nazis the greatest weapon the
24
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
world will ever know, and then have them
discover that only I, who understood, and
who accordingly fitted in with the immuta-
ble laws involved — only I could ever operate
the machine. And I would have to be pres-
ent physically. That way I would prove
my indispensability and so transform the
entire world to my way of thinking.
G. We’ve got ways of making indispensables
work.
K. Oh, that part is past. I’ve discovered what
thing is going to happen — to me as well as to
my invention.
G. Plenty is going to happen to you. You’ve al-
ready talked yourself into a concentration
camp.
K. After I discovered that, my main purpose sim-
plified. I wanted to do the preliminary
work on the machine and, naturally, I had
to do that under the prevailing system of
government — by cunning and misrepresen-
tation. I had no fear that any of the pre-
cautions they were so laboriously taking
would give them the use of the machine, not
this year, not this generation, not ever.
The machine simply cannot be used by peo-
ple who think as they do. For instance, the
model that —
G. Model! What are you talking about?
K. Silence, please. I am anxious to clarify for
the dictaphone that will seem obscure
enough under any circumstances. The rea-
son the model worked perfectly was because
I fitted in mentally and physically. Even
after I left, it continued to carry out the
task I had set it, but as soon as Herr —
(Seventeen) made a change, it began to
yield to other pressures. The accident —
G. Accident!
K. Will you shut up? Can’t you see that I am
trying to give information for the benefit of
future generations? I have no desire that
my secret be lost. The whole thing is in
understanding. The mechanical part is only
half the means. The mental approach is in-
dispensable. Even Herr — (Seventeen) who
was beginning to be sympathique could not
keep the machine sane for more than an
hour. His death, of course, was inevitable,
whether it looked like an accident or not.
G. Whose death?
K. What it boils down to is this. My invention
does not fit into our civilization. It’s the
next, the coming age of man. Just as mod-
ern science could not develop in ancient
Egypt, because the whole mental, emotional
and physical attitude was wrong, so my
machine cannot be used until the thought
structure of man changes. Your masters
will have some further facts soon to bear
me out.
G. Look ! You said something before about some-
thing happening. What?
K. But I’ve just been telling you: I don’t know.
The law of averages says it won’t be another
sun, but there are a thousand deadly things
that can happen. When Nature’s gears snag,
no imaginable horror can match the result.
G. But something is going to happen?
K. I really expected it before this. The official
opening was set for half past one. Of course,
it doesn’t really matter. If it doesn’t hap-
pen today, it will take place tomorrow.
G. Official opening ! You mean an accident is go-
ing to happen at some official opening?
K. Yes, and my body will be attracted. I —
G. What — Good God! he’s gone.
(Confusion. Voices no longer audible.)
March 25, 1941
From Reich and Prussian Minister of Science
To Herr Himmler
Subject Destruction of Gribe Schloss
The report is still not ready. As you were not
present, I have asked the journalist, Polermann,
who was with Hitler, to write a description of the
scene. His account is inclosed, with the first page
omitted.
You will note that in a number of paragraphs,
he reveals incomplete knowledge of the basic situa-
tion, but except for this, his story is, I believe, the
most accurate we have.
The first page of his article was inadvertently
destroyed; it was simply a preliminary.
For your information.
DESCRIPTION OF DESTRUCTION OF
GRIBE SCHLOSS BY HERR POLERMANN
— The first planet came in an unexpected fash-
ion. I realized that as I saw Herr — (Twelve)
make some hasty adjustments on one of his dials.
Still dissatisfied, he connected a telephone plug
into a socket somewhere in his weird-looking
asbestos suit, thus establishing telephone com-
munication with the minister of science, who was
in the steel inclosure with us. I heard his Excel-
lency’s reply:
“Night! Well, I suppose it has to be night some
time on other planets. You’re not sure it’s the
same planet? I imagine the darkness is con-
fusing.”
It was. In the mirror, the night visible through
the orifice showed a bleak, gray, luminous land-
scape, incredibly eerie and remote, an unnatural
world of curious shadows, and not a sign of move-
ment anywhere.
SECRET UNATTAINABLE
25
And that, after an instant, struck us all with
an appalling effect, the dark consciousness of that
great planet, swinging somewhere around a distant
sun, an uninhabited waste, a lonely reminder that
life is rarer than death in the vast Universe.
Herr — (Twelve) made an adjustment on a dial;
and, instantly, the great orifice showed that we
were seeing the interior of the planet. A spotlight
switched on, and picked out a solid line of red
earth that, slowly, as the dial was turned, became
clay, then a rock stratum came into view; and was
held in focus.
An asbestos-clothed assistant of Herr —
(Twelve) dislodged a piece of rock with a pick.
He lifted it, and started to bring it toward the
steel inclosure, apparently for the Fuehrer’s in-
spection.
And abruptly vanished.
We blinked our eyes. But he was gone, and
the rock with him. Herr — (Twelve) switched on
his telephone hurriedly. There was a consultation,
in which the Fuehrer participated.
The decision finally was that it had been a mis-
take to examine a doubtful planet, and that the
accident had happened because the rock had been
removed. Accordingly, no further effort would
be made to remove anything.
Regret was expressed by the Fuehrer that the
brave assistant should have suffered such a mys-
terious fate.
We resumed our observant positions, more alert
now, conscious of what a monstrous instrument
was here before our eyes. A man whisked com-
pletely out of our space simply because he had
touched rock from a planet in hyper-space.
The second planet was also dark. At first it,
too, looked a barren world, enveloped in night;
and then — wonder.
Against the dark, towering background of a
great hill, a city grew. It spread along the shore
of a moonlit sea, ablaze with ten million lights.
It clung there for a moment, a crystalline city,
alive with brilliant streets. Then it faded.
Swiftly it happened. The lights seemed literally
to slide off into the luminous sea. For a moment,
the black outline of city remained, then that, too,
vanished into the shadows. Astoundingly, the
hill that had formed an imposing background for
splendor, distorted like a picture out of focus, and
was gone with the city.
A flat, night-wrapped beach spread where, a mo-
ment before, there had been a world of lights, a
city of another planet, the answer to ten million
questions about life on other worlds — gone like a
secret wind into the darkness.
It was plain to see that the test, the opening,
was not according to schedule. Once more, Herr —
(Twelve) spoke through the telephone to his Ex-
cellency, the minister of science.
His Excellency turned to the Fuehrer, and said:
“He states that he appears to have no control over
the order of appearance. Not once has he been
able to tune in a planet, which he had previously
selected to show you.”
There was another consultation. It was de-
cided that this second planet, though it had
reacted in an abnormal manner, had not actually
proved dangerous. Therefore, one more attempt
would be made.
No sooner was this decision arrived at, than
there was a very distinctly audible click from the
machine. And, though we did not realize it im-
mediately, the catastrophe was upon us.
I cannot describe the queer loudness of that
clicking from the machine. It was not a metallic
noise. I have since been informed that only an
enormous snapping of energy in motion could
have made that unusual, unsettling sound.
My own sense of uneasiness was quickened by
the sight of Herr — (Twelve) frantically twisting
dials.
But nothing happened for a few seconds. The
planet, on which we had seen the city, continued
to hold steady in the orifice. The darkened beach
spread there in the half light shed by a moon we
couldn’t see. And then —
A figure appeared in the orifice. I cannot recall
all my emotions at the sight of that manlike being.
There was a wild thought that here was some
supercreature, who, dissatisfied with the accidents
he had so far caused us, was now come to complete
our destruction.
That thought ended, as the figure came out onto
the floor; and one of the assistants swung a spot-
light on him. The light revealed him as a tall,
well-built, handsome man, dressed in ordinary
clothes.
Beside me, I heard someone explain: “Why,
it’s Professor Kenrube.”
For most of those present, everything must have,
in that instant, been clear. I, however, did not
learn until later that Kenrube was one of the
scientists assigned to assist Herr — (Twelve) in
building the machine, and that he turned out to
be a traitor.
He was suspected in the destruction of an earlier
model, but as there was no evidence and the suspi-
cion not very strong, was permitted to continue
his work.
Suspicion had arisen again a few days pre-
viously, and he had been confined to his quarters,
from whence, apparently, he had now come forth
to make sure that his skillful tampering with the
machine had worked out.
This, then, was the man who stood before us;
my impression was that he should not have been
allowed to utter his blasphemies, but I understand
the leaders were anxious to learn the extent of his
26
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
infamy, and thought he might reveal it in his
speech. Although I do not profess to understand
the gibberish, I have a very clear memory of what
was said, and set it down here for what it is worth :
Kenrube began : “I have no idea how much time
I have, and as I was unable to explain clearly to
the dictaphone all that I had to say, I must try to
finish here.
“I am not thinking now in terms of revenge,
though God knows my brother was very dear to
me. But I want the world to know the way of
this invention.”
The poor fool seemed to be laboring under the
impression that the machine was his. I did not,
and do not understand, his reference to a dicta-
phone. Kenrube went on:
“My first inkling came through psychology, the
result of meditating on the manner in which the
soil of different parts of the earth influence the
race that lives there. This race-product was al-
ways more than simply the end-shape of a sea
coast, or a plains, or a mountain environment.
“Somehow, beneath adaptations, peculiar and
unsuspected relationships existed between the
properties of matter and the phenomena of life.
And so my search was born. The idea of revenge
came later.
“I might say that in all history there has never
been a revenge as complete as mine. Here is your
machine; it is all there, yours to use for any pur-
pose — provided you first change your mode of
thinking to conform to the reality of the relation-
ship between matter and life.
“I have no doubt you can build a thousand dupli-
cates, but beware — every machine will be a
Frankenstein monster. Some of them will distort
time, as seems to have happened in the time of my
arrival here; others will feed you raw material,
that will vanish even as you reach forth to seize
it; still others will pour obscene things into our
green earth; and others will blaze with terrible
energies, but never will you know what is coming,
never will you satisfy a single desire.
“You may wonder why everything will go
wrong. Herr — (Twelve) has, I am sure, been able
to make brief, successful tests. That will be the
result of my earlier presence, and will not recur
now that so many alien presences have affected its
— sanity 1
“It is not that the machine has will. It reacts
to laws, which you must learn, and in the learning
it will reshape your minds, your outlook on life; it
will change the world.
“Long before that, of course, the Nazis will be
destroyed. They have taken irrevocable steps, that
will insure their destruction.
“Revenge! Yes, I have it in the only way that a
decent human being could desire it. I ask any
reasonable being how else these murderers could
be wiped from the face of the earth, except by
other nations, who would never act until they had
acted first?
“I have only the vaguest idea what the machine
will do with me — it matters not — but I should like
to ask you, my great Fuehrer, one question :
Where now will you obtain your raw materials?”
He must have timed it exactly. For, as he fin-
ished, his figure dimmed.
Dimmed! How else describe the blur that his
body became?
And he was gone, merged with the matter with
which, he claimed, his life force was attuned.
The madman had one more devastating surprise
for us. The dark planet, from which the city had
disappeared, was abruptly gone from the orifice.
In its place appeared another dark world. As our
vision grew accustomed to this new night, we saw
that this was a world of restless water; to the
remote, dim horizon was a blue-black, heaving sea.
Abruptly, the machine switched below the surface,
at least ten hellish miles below it must have been,
judging from the pressure, I have since been in-
formed.
There was a roar that seemed to shake the earth.
Only those who were with the Fuehrer in the
steel room succeeded in escaping. Twenty feet to
a great army truck that stood with engines churn-
ing — it was not the first time that I was thankful
that some car engines are always left running
wherever the Fuehrer is present.
The water swelled and surged around our wheels
as we raced up the new-paved road, straight up
out of the valley. It was touch and go.
We looked back in sheer horror. Never in the
world has there been such a titanic torrent, such a
whirlpool.
The water rose four hundred feet in minutes,
threatened to overflow the valley sides, and then
struck a balance. The great new river is still
there, raging toward the Eastern Sea.
Author’s Note: This is not quite the end of the
file. A few more letters exist, but it is unwise to
print more, as it might be possible for Geheime
Staats Polizei to trace the individual who actually
removed the file Secret Six from its cabinet by
ascertaining which was the last letter filed.
It is scarcely necessary to point out that we have
seen the answer that Hitler made to Professor
Kenrube’ s question: “ Where now will you obtain
your raw materials?”
On June 22nd, three months almost to the day
after the destruction of Gribe Schloss, the Nazis
began their desperate invasion of Russia.
THE END.
27
BRIMSTONE BILL
By Malcolm Jameson
# Bill was a crook, a hell-fire-damnation specialist in the
art of collecting cash. A marvelous orator— with gadgets.
But Commander Bullard had a good use for a bad actor!
Illustrated by Orban
The prisoners were herded into the room and
ranged against one of the bulkheads. Captain Bul-
lard sat stiffly behind his desk regarding the group
of ruffians with a gaze of steely appraisal. Lieu-
tenant Benton and a pair of pistoled bluejackets
were handling the prisoners, while Commander
Moore stood at the back of Bullard’s desk, looking
on. Then Bullard gave a jerk of his head and the
procession started. One by one they shuffled to
the spot before his desk, clanking their heavy
chains at each dragging step. And one by one the
captain of the Pollux surveyed them, critically and
coldly, comparing their appearance and their
marks with the coded descriptions in the ether-
gram on his desk.
These were the survivors of the notorious Ziffler
gang, captured on Oberon the month before, after
the encounter on the lip of a little crater that the
Polliwogs had already come to call the “Battle of
the Mirrors.” The first, of course, was Egon Zif-
fler himself, all his arrogance and bluster melted
away long since. Then came Skul Drosno, his
chief aid, and there followed ten other plug-uglies
who had survived the holocaust of reflected fire.
All were big hulking brutes of Callistans, ray-
blackened, scarred and hairy. The last and thir-
28
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
teenth man was of a different type altogether.
Bullard waited in silence until he had ranged him-
self before his desk.
“Paul Grogan,” called Benton, checking the final
name of the list.
“Hm-m-m,” said Bullard, looking at the misera-
ble specimen standing at a grotesque version of
“attention” before him, and then glancing at the
Bureau of Justice’s ethergram summary of his
pedigree. After that he studied the prisoner in
detail. He was a queer fish indeed to have been
caught in siich a haul. .
The self-styled Grogan was a wizened, under-
fed little fellow and bore himself with an astonish-
ing blend of cringing and swagger. The strangest
thing about him was his head, which was oversize
for his body. He had a fine forehead topped with
a leonine mane of iron-gray hair, which after a
cursory glance might have been called a noble
head. But there was an occasional shifty flicker
of the eyes and a twitching at the mouth that
belied that judgment. Bullard referred to 1»he
Bureau’s memo again.
“Grogan,” it said, “probably Zander, alias Ard-
well, alias Nordham, and many other names. Small-
time crook and chiseler, card sharp, confidence
man. Arrested often throughout Federation for
petty embezzlement, but no convictions. Not
known to have connection with Ziffler gang.”
“Hm-m-m,” said Bullard again. He had placed
Grogan, et cetera, now in his memory. It had
been a long time since the paths of the two had
crossed, but Bullard never forgot things that hap-
pened to him. Nor did he see fit to recall it too
distinctly to his prisoner, for he was not altogether
proud of the recollection. But to check his own
powers of retention, he asked:
“You operated on Venus at one time — as an
itinerant preacher, if the record is correct — under
the name of Brimstone Bill?”
“Why, yes, sir, now that you mention it,” ad-
mitted Brimstone Bill, with a sheepish grin. “But,
oh, sir, I quit that long ago. It didn’t pay.”
“Really?” remarked Bullard. That was not his
recollection of it. He had visited Venus in those
days as a Passed Midshipman. One night, in the
outskirts of Erosburg, they had curiously fol-
lowed a group of skymen into a lighted hall em-
blazoned with the sign, “Come, See and Hear
BRIMSTONE BILL — Free Admittance.” And
they went, saw and heard. That bit of investiga-
tion had cost the youthful Bullard just a month’s
pay — all he had with him. For he had fallen under
the spell of the fiery oratory of the little man with
the big bushy head and flashing eyes, and after
groveling before the rostrum and confessing him-
self a wicked boy, he had turned his pockets
wrongside out to find some worthy contribution to
further “the cause.” Bullard winced whenever he
thought of it.
“No, sir, it didn’t pay,” said the little man. “In
money, yes. But not in other ways.”
“The police, eh?”
“Oh, not at all, sir,” protested Brimstone Bill.
“Everything I ever did was strictly legal. It was
the suckers . . . uh, the congregation, that is. They
got wise to me. A smart-Aleck scientist from the
gormel mills showed me up one night — ”
He lifted his manacled hands and turned them
so the palms showed outward. Deep in each palm
was a bright-red, star-shaped scar.
“They crucified me. When the police cut me
down the next day, I swore I’d never preach again.
And I won’t, so help me.”
“You are right about that,” said Bullard grimly,
satisfied that his memory was as good as he
thought it was. “This last time you have stretched
your idea of what’s legal beyond its elastic limit.
The gang you were caught with is on its way to
execution.”
Brimstone Bill emitted a howl and fell to his
knees, whining and pleading.
“Save that for your trial,” said Bullard harshly.
“Take ’em away, Benton.”
After they had all gone, Bullard sat back and
relaxed. He promptly dismissed Ziffler and his
mob from his mind. The Oberon incident was
now a closed book. It was one more entry in the
glorious log of the Pollux. It was the future —
what was to happen next — that mattered.
The Pollux had stood guard over the ruined
fortress of Caliban until the relief ships arrived.
Now she was homeward bound. At Lunar Base a
richly deserved and long-postponed rest awaited
her and her men. And there was not a man on
board but would have a wife or sweetheart waiting
for him at the receiving dock. Leave and liberty
were ahead, and since it was impossible to spend
money in the ship’s canteen, every member of the
crew had a year’s or more accrued pay on the
books. Moreover there would be bonuses and
prize money for the destruction of the Ziffler gang.
Never in the history of the service had a ship
looked forward to such a satisfactory homecoming,
for everyone at her arrival would be gayly waving
bright handkerchiefs, laughing and smiling. Her
chill mortuary chamber down below was empty,
as were the neat rows of bunks in the sick bay.
The Pollux had achieved her triumph without
casualties.
It was on that happy day of making port that
Bullard was idly dreaming when the sharp double
rap on the door informed him that Moore was
back. And the executive officer would hardly have
come back so soon unless something important had
turned up. So when Bullard jerked himself upright
again and saw the pair of yellow flimsies in Moore’s
hand, his heart sank at once. Orders. Orders and
BRIMSTONE BILL
29
always more orders! Would they never let the
ship rest?
“Now what?” asked Bullard, warily.
“The Bureau of Justice,” said Moore, laying
down the first signal, “has just ordered the im-
mediate payment to all hands of the Ziffler bonus.
It runs into handsome figures.”
Bullard grunted, ignoring the message. Of
course. The men would get a bonus and a hand-
some one. But why at this particular moment?
He knew that Moore was holding back the bad
news.
“Go on,” growled Bullard, “let’s have it!”
Moore shuffled his feet unhappily, expecting an
outburst of rage. Then, without a word he handed
Bullard the second message. It read:
Pollux will stop at Juno Skydocks en route Luna to
have hull scraped. Pay crew and grant fullest liberty
while there. Implicit compliance with this order ex-
pected.
Grand Admiral.
Bullard glared at the thing, then crushed it to a
tight ball in his fist and hurled it from him. He
sat for a moment cursing softly under his breath
during which the red haze of rage almost blinded
him. He would have preferred anything to that
order — to turn about and go out of the orbit of
Neptune for another battle, if there had been need
for it, would have been preferable. But this!
He kicked his chair backward and began pacing
the room like a caged tiger. It was such a lousy,
stinking trick to do — and to him and his Pollux
of all people! To begin with, the ship had no sky-
barnacles on her hull, as the pestiferous little
ferrous-consuming interplanetary spores were
called on account of the blisters they raised on the
hull. And if she had, Juno was no place to get
rid of them. Its skydock was a tenth-rate service
station fit only for tugs and mine layers. The
twenty men employed there could not possibly be
expected to go over the hull under a month, and
the regulations forbade the ship’s crew working
on the hull while in a planetary dockyard. The
dockyard workers’ guilds had seen to that. More-
over, Juno was not even on the way to Luna, but
far beyond, since from where the Pollux was at
the moment, the Earth lay between her and the
Sun, while Juno was in opposition. It was
damnable !
Bullard growled in midstride and kicked
viciously at an electrician’s testing case that stood
in his path. That wasn’t all — not by a damsite!
Juno was one of the vilest dumps inside the
Federation. It was an ore-gathering and provi-
sioning point for the asteroid prospectors and
consequently was populated by as vicious a mob
of beachcombers and their ilk as could be found
in the System. Juno literally festered with gin
mills, gambling hells and dives of every descrip-
tion. No decent man could stand it there for three
days. He either left or took to drink. And, what
with what was sold to drink on Juno, that led to
all the rest — ending usually in drugs or worse. It
was in that hell hole that he had been ordered to
set down his fine ship for thirty days. When he
thought of his fine boys and the eager women im-
patiently awaiting their homecoming, he boiled.
“Shall I protest the order, sir?” asked Moore,
hopefully.
“Certainly not,” snapped Bullard, halting ab-
ruptly and facing him. “I never protest orders. I
carry ’em out. Even if the skies fall. I’ll carry
this one out, too, damn ’em. But I’ll make the
fellow who dictated it — ”
He suddenly checked himself. He had been
about to add, “regret he ever had,” when he re-
membered in a flash that Moore’s family was in
some way connected with the Fennings. Only
Senator Fenning could have inspired the change
of plans. The grand admiral had issued the order
and signed it? of course, but he had inserted the
clue as to why in its own last redundant sentence.
“Implicit compliance is expected,” indeed! No ad-
miral would be guilty of such a tacit admission
that perhaps not all orders need be strictly com-
plied with. That sentence meant, as plainly as
if the crude words themselves had been employed,
this:
“Bullard, old boy, we know this looks goofy and
all wrong to you, but we’re stuck. You’ve been
chosen as the sacrificial goat this year, so be a
good sport and take it. None of your tricks, old
fellow. We know you can dope out a way to
annul any fool order, but don’t let us down on
this one.”
The line of Bullard’s mouth tightened. He sat
down quietly in his chair and said to the expectant
Moore as matter-of-factly as if he had been ar-
ranging a routine matter:
“Have the course changed for Juno, and inform
the admiral that he can count on his orders being
carried out to the letter.”
Commander Moore may have been surprised at
Bullard’s tame surrender, but, after all, one was
more helpless sometimes in dealing with one’s own
admiral than with the most ruthless and resource-
ful enemy. He merely said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and
left the room.
Two weeks rolled by, and then another. They
were well within the orbit of Jupiter now, and
indeed the hither asteroids. Hungry eyes now
and then looked at the pale-blue tiny disk with
its silvery dot companion as it showed on the low-
power visifield and thought of home. Home was
so near and yet so far. For the ship was veering
off to the left, to pass close inside Mars and then
to cut through beyond the Sun and far away again
30
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
to where the miserable little rock of Juno rolled
along with its nondescript population.
During those days the usual feverish activity
of the ship died down until it became the dullest
sort of routine. Men of all ratings were thinking,
“What’s the use?”' Moore and Benton were every-
where, trying to explain away the unexplainable,
but the men did not react very well. Many were
beginning to wonder whether the service was what
it was cracked up to be, and not a few were plan-
ning a big bust the very first night they hit the
beach on Juno. It was not what they had planned,
but it seemed to be what was available. Only Bul-
lard and Lieutenant MacKay kept apart and ap-
peared to take little interest in what was to hap-
pen next.
Alan MacKay was a newcomer to the service,
and his specialty was languages. So he had filled
in what time he had to spare from the routine
duties by frequenting the prison spaces and chat-
ting with the Callistans in the brig. He had man-
aged to compile an extraordinary amount of in-
formation relating to the recent war as seen from
behind the scenes on the other side, and he was
sure it was going to be of value to the Department.
Moreover, he had gleaned additional data on the
foray to Oberon. All of which would make the
prosecutor’s job more thorough when the day of
the trial came. As for Bullard, he kept to his
cabin, pacing the deck for hours at a stretch and
wrestling with his newest problem.
His thoughts were leaping endlessly in a circuit
from one item to the next and on and on until he
came back to the point of departure and began all
over again. There was the ship, the crew, and the
devoted women waiting for the return of the crew,
and the fat entries in the paymaster’s books that
meant so much to them both. And there was the
squalid town of Herapolis with its waiting, hungry
harpies with a thousand proven schemes for get-
ting at that money for themselves; and there was
the cunning and avaricious overlord of the aster-
oids, their landlord and creditor, who would in the
end transfer the funds to his own account. That
man also sat in the upper chamber of the Federa-
tion Grand Council and was a power in Inter-
planetary politics. His name was Fenning —
Senator Fenning — and he dominated the commit-
tee that dealt out appropriations to the Patrol
Force. And from that point Bullard’s mind would
jump to the Tellurian calendar and he would re-
call that it was now March on Earth, and therefore
just about the time that the annual budget was
In preparation. Which in turn would lead him
back to the General Service Board, which dealt
on the one hand with the Force as a master, but
with the Grand Council as perennial supplicant
for funds on the other. Which naturally took him
to the necessities of the grand admiral and the
needs of the Service as a whole. Which brought
him back to the Pollux’s orders and started the
vicious circle all over again.
For Bullard was cynical and wise enough in the
ways of the world to have recognized at the outset
that the ship’s proposed stay at Juno yard was
neither more nor less than a concealed bribe to
the honorable senator. Perhaps it had been a bad
season in the asteroid mines and his debtors had
gotten behind. If so, they would need a needling
of good, honest cash to square accounts. Perhaps
it was merely Fenning’s insatiable lust for ever
more money, or maybe he only insisted on the
maneuver to demonstrate his authority. Or per-
haps, even, having bulldozed the Patrol Force into
erecting a small and inadequate skydock where
either an effective one or none at all was needed,
he felt he must have some use made of it to justify
his prior action. Whatever Fenning’s motives
really were, they were ignoble. No exigency of
the service required the Pollux to visit Juno now —
or ever. And to Bullard’s mind, no exigency of
politics or personal ambition could condone what
was about to be done to the Pollux’s crew.
It was the ethical content of the problem that
bothered Bullard. Practically it was merely an-
noying. With himself on board, his veteran offi-
cers and a not inconsiderable nucleus of tried and
true men who had been in the ship for years, she
could not go altogether to hell no matter how long
they had to stay on Juno. He knew he could count
on many — perhaps half — going ashore only occa-
sionally; the other half could be dealt with sternly
should they exceed all reasonable bounds for shore
behavior after a hard and grueling cruise. But in
both halves he would have to deal with discontent.
The decent, far-sighted, understanding men al-
ready resented the interference with their plans,
since there was no sufficiently plausible reason
given for it. They would accept it, as men have
from the beginning of time, but not gracefully or
without grumbling. Then the riotous element
would feel, if unduly harsh disciplinary measures
were applied, that, somehow, they had been let
down. Wasn’t the very fact they had been sent to
Juno for liberty and paid off with it an invitation
to shoot the works?
There were other courses of action open to him,
Captain Bullard knew. The easiest was inaction.
Let the men have their fling. Given a few months
in space again, he could undo all the damage. All?
That was it. Nothing could undo the disappoint-
ment of the women waiting at Earth and Luna —
nor the demoralization of the men at not getting
there, for that matter. Nor could the money
coaxed or stolen from them by the Junoesque
creatu-’es of Fenning ever be recovered. More-
over, the one thing Bullard did not was in-
action. If he was already half mutinous himself,
what of the men? No. He would do something
about it.
BRIMSTONE BILL
31
Well, he could simply proceed to Luna, take the
blame, and perhaps be dismissed. He could give
the story to the magnavox in the hope that by
discrediting Senator Fenning and the System, his
sacrifice might be worth the making. But would
it? Would the magnavox dare put such a story
on the ether? And wouldn’t that be letting the
admirals down? For they knew his dilemma quite
as well as he did. They had chosen, chosen for
the good of the Service. The System could not
be broken, or it would have been long ago. It
was the Pollux’s turn to contribute the oil that
greased the machine.
Bullard sighed. Juno was less than a week
away now, and he saw no way out. Time after
time in his gloom he was almost ready to admit
he was beaten. But the instincts and training of
a lifetime kept him from the actual confession.
There must be some way of beating Fenning! It
must be a way, of course, which would cast no re-
flection on the grand admiral. Or the ship. Or
the crew. And, to be really successful, no in-
eradicable discredit upon himself. Bullard got up,
rumpled his hair, and resumed his tigerish pacing.
It was Lieutenant MacKay who interrupted his
stormy thoughts. MacKay had something to say
about the prisoners. He had just about finished
pumping them dry and was prepared to draw up
the report. There were several recommendations
he had to make, but he wanted his captain’s opinion
and approval first.
“It’s about that fellow Zander — the Earthman,
you know — ” he began.
“Oh, Brimstone Bill?” grinned Bullard. He was
rather glad MacKay had broken in on him. The
sense of futility he had been suffering lately had
begun to ingrow and make him bitter.
“Yes, sir. He’s a highly undesirable citizen, of
course, but I’m beginning to feel a little sorry for
him. The old scalawag hadn’t anything to do with
the Caliban massacre. He just happened to be
there when Ziffler came, and escaped being killed
only by luck. He was dealer in a rango game
when they landed, and his boss had a couple of
Callistan bouncers. Ziffler gave ’em the chance of
joining up with him, which they did and took
Brimstone along with ’em, saying he was O. K.
Brimstone went along because it was that or else.
He had no part in anything.”
“I see,” said Bullard, and thought a moment.
“But I haven’t anything to do with it. What
happens hereafter is up to the court. You should
submit your report to them.”
After MacKay left, Bullard’s thoughts turned
upon his first encounter with the little charlatan
many years before on Venus. Somehow, the fel-
low had had a profound effect on him at the time.
So much so, in fact, that it came as something of
a shock the day of his preliminary examination to
find that the man had been a fake all along. Bul-
lard had been tempted to think him a good man
who had eventually gone wrong. Now he knew
better. But as he continued his train of reminis-
cence, something suddenly clicked inside his head.
He sat bolt upright, and a gleam of hope began
to dawn in his eyes. Brimstone Bill had a peculiar
talent which might come in very handy in the
trying weeks ahead. Could he use it with safety
to himself? That had to be considered, for deal-
ing with a professional crook had risks. Yet, ac-
cording to Brimstone’s own admission, it had been
a gormel engineer that had shown him up, and
Bullard figured that if a biophysics engineer could
match wits with the grizzled trickster and win, he
could. Perhaps —
But there was no perhaps about it. Bullard’s
fingers were already reaching for his call button,
and a moment later Benton stood before him.
“Go down to the brig,” directed the captain, "and
bring that man Zander up here. Take his irons
off first as I do not like to talk to men bound like
animals. The fellow is a cheap crook, but he is
harmless physically.”
While he waited for Benton’s return, Bullard ex-
plored the plan he had already roughly outlined in
his mind. By pitting Brimstone Bill against Fen-
ning he hoped to foil the greater scoundrel. But
would he fall between two stools in the doing of
it? He must also pit himself against the swin-
dler, or else he would simply have enabled one
crook to outsmart another without profit other
than the gratification of spite. He had also to
think of the other possible costs. The grand
admiral must have no cause for complaint that
there had been any evasion of his orders. Like-
wise Fenning must have no grievance that he dared
utter out loud. There remained the item of the
reputation of the Pollux and its men.
He puckered his brow for a time over that one.
Then he relaxed. There were reputations and
reputations, and extremes both ways. Some re-
garded one extreme with great favor, others pre-
ferred the other. Bullard liked neither, but for
practical reasons preferred to embrace one for a
time rather than its alternate. He would chance
a little ridicule. After all, people might smile
behind their hands at what a Polliwog might do,
but no one ever curled a lip in the face of one
and afterward had his face look the same. Pollux
men had quite a margin of reputation, when it
came to. that, so he dismissed the matter from his
mind. From then on he sat and grinned or frowned
as this or that detail of his proposed course of
action began to pop out in anticipation.
When Brimstone Bill was brought in, there was
no hint in Bullard’s bearing that he had softened
his attitude toward the prisoner one whit. He
stared at him with cold, unsmiling sternness.
32
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“Zander,” he said, drilling him with his eyes,
“you are in a bad jam. Do you want to die along
with those other gorillas?”
“Oh, no, sir,” whined Brimstone, “I’ll do any-
thing. . . . I’ll spill all I know. . . . I’d — ”
Bullard shut him off with an abrupt wave of
the hand.
“As the arresting officer I am in a position to
do you a great deal of good or harm. If you will
play ball with me, I can guarantee you a commuta-
tion. Maybe more — much more.” He uttered the
last words slowly as if in some doubt as to how
much more. “Will you do it?”
“Oh, sir,” cried Brimstone in an ecstasy of relief,
for it was plain to see he had suffered during his
languishment in the brig, “I’ll do anything you
say — ”
“On my terms?” Bullard was hard as a rock.
“On any terms — Oh, yes, sir . . . just tell me — ”
“Benton! Kindly leave us now while I talk
with this man. Stay close to the call signal."
Bullard never took his eyes off the receding back
of his lieutenant until the door clicked to behind
it. Then he dropped his hard-boiled manner like
a mask.
“Sit down, Brimstone Bill, and relax. I’m more
friendly to you than you think.” He waved to a
chair and Brimstone sat down, looking a little
frightened and uncertain. Then, proceeding on
the assumption that a crook would understand an
ulterior motive where he would distrust an honest
one, Bullard dropped his voice to a low conversa-
tional — or rather conspiratorial — tone, and said:
“Everybody needs money. You do. And — well,
a captain of a cruiser like this has obligations that
the admiralty doesn’t think about. I could use
money, too. You are a clever moneymaker and
can make it in ways I can’t. I’m going to let you
out of the jug and put you in the way of making
some.”
Brimstone Bill was keenly listening now and the
glint of greed brightened his foxy eyes. This man
in uniform was talking his language; he was a
fellow like himself — no foolishness about him.
Brimstone furtively licked his lips. He had had
partners before, too, and that usually worked out
pretty well, also. He might make a pretty good
bargain yet.
“We are on our way to Juno where we will stop
awhile. I am going to let you go ashore there and
do your stuff. You’ll be given my protection, you
can keep the money here in my safe, and you can
sleep here nights. You had a pretty smooth racket
there on Venus, as I remember it. If you work it
here, we’ll clean up. After we leave, we’ll split the
net take fifty-fifty. That’ll give you money enough
to beat the charges against you and leave you a
stake. All I want you to do is preach the way
you did on Venus.”
While Bullard was talking, Brimstone grew
brighter and brighter. It was beginning to look
as if the world was his oyster. But at the last
sentence he wilted.
“I can’t do that,” he wailed. “I’m afraid. And — ”
“There are no gormel mills on Juno,” Bullard
reminded him, “only roughneck asteroid miners,
gamblers and chiselers.”
“That ain’t it, sir,” moaned Brimstone. “They
smashed my gadgets, ’n’ — ”
“Gadgets?”
“Yeah. I ain’t no good without ’em. And the
fellow that made ’em is dead.”
He talked on a few minutes more, but Bullard
interrupted him. He called in Benton and told
him to take notes.
“Go on,” he told Brimstone Bill. “We’ll make
you a set.”
It took about an hour before Benton had all the
information he needed. Brimstone was hazy as
to some of the features of his racket, but Bullard
and the young officer were way ahead of him all
the time.
“Can do?” asked Bullard, finally.
“Can do,” declared Benton with a grin, slamming
his notebook shut. “I’ll put the boys in the repair
shop' right at it. They won’t have the faintest no-
tion what we want to use ’em for.”
Benton rose. As far as that went, Benton him-
self was- still somewhat in the fog, but he had
served with his skipper long enough to know that
when he was wearing a certain, inward kind of
quizzical expression that something out of the
ordinary was cooking. His talent for a peculiar
oblique approach to any insoluble problem was
well known to those about him. Wise ones did as
they were told and asked questions, if ever, after-
ward.
“On your way out, Benton,” added Bullard,
“take our friend down to the chaplain’s room — we
left Luna in such a hurry, you know, the chaplain
missed the ship — and let him bunk there. I’ll see
that suitable entry is made in the log. And you
might tell Commander Moore that I’d like to see
him.”
When Benton and Brimstone had left, Bullard
leaned back in his chair and with hands clasped
behind his neck gazed contemplatively at the over-
head. So far, so good. Now to break the news to
Moore.
“I’ve been thinking, Moore,” he said r when his
executive came in, “that we have been a little lax
in one matter. I was thinking of . . . uh, spiritual
values. I’m sorry now that the chaplain missed
the ship. Do you realize that we have made no
pretense at holding any sort of service since we
blasted off on this cruise?”
Moore’s eyes bugged a little. The skipper, he
was thinking, must have overdone his recent
worryir^c. Or something. Bullard had always
been punctiliously polite to the chaplain, but —
BRIMSTONE BILL
33
“So,” went on Bullard calmly, still gazing
placidly at the maze of wires and conduits hang-
ing from the deck plates over him, “I have made
appropriate arrangements to rectify that lack. I
find that the Earthman we took along with the
Ziffler outfit was not one of them but a hostage
they had captured. He is an itinerant preacher —
a free-lance missionary, so to speak. I have re-
leased him from the brig and installed him in the
chaplain’s room, and after he has had a chance to
clean up and recover, he will talk to the men
daily.”
It was well that Moore’s eyes were firmly tied
to their sockets, for if they had bugged before,
they bulged dangerously now. Bullard had brooded
too much. Bullard was mad!
"Oh,” assured Bullard, “there is nothing to
worry about. The man is still a prisoner at large
awaiting action by the Bureau of Justice. But
otherwise he will have the run of the ship. And,
I should add, the run of the town while we are
on Juno. He calls himself, oddly enough, Brim-
stone Bill, but he explains that he works clo^e to
the people and they prefer less dignity.”
Moore gasped, but there seemed to be nothing to
say. Bullard had not consulted him, he had been
merely telling him. Unless he had the boldness to
pronounce his captain unwell and forcibly assume
command, there was nothing to do but accept it.
And with a husky, “Aye, aye,” he did.
It was the night before they made Juno that the
long unheard twitter of bos’n’s pipes began peep-
ing and cheeping throughout the ship. At the call,
the bos’n’s mates took up the cry and the word,
“Rig church in the fo’c’s’le ri-ight a-awa-a-ay!”
went resounding through the compartments. Bul-
lard clung tenaciously to the immemorial old ship
customs. The sound of bunks being cleared away
and the clatter of benches being put up followed
as the crew’s living quarters were transformed into
a temporary assembly hall. They had been told
that the missionary brought aboard at Oberon had
a message for them. They had not been told what
its subject was, but their boredom with black space
was immense and they would have gone, anyway,
if only from curiosity. The text for the evening
was “The Gates of Hell Are Yawning Wide.”
Two hours earlier Benton had reported that all
was in readiness for the test of Brimstone’s per-
suasive powers and that the three petty officer
assistants picked by him had been instructed in
their job. A special box had been rigged at one
corner of the hall for the use of the captain and
executive. Consequently, when “Assembly” went,
Bullard waited only long enough for the men to
be seated when he marched in with Moore and
took his place at one corner of the stage that had
been set up.
Brimstone Bill appeared in a solemn outfit made
up for him by the ship’s tailor. The setting and
the clothes had made a new man of him. No
longer was he the shifty-looking, cringing pris-
oner, but a man of austerity and power whose
flashing eyes more than made amends for his poor
physique. He proceeded to the center of the
stage, glared at his audience a moment, then flung
an accusing finger at them.
“Hell is waiting for you!” he exploded, then
stepped back and shook his imposing mane and
continued to glare at them. There was not a titter
or sneer in the crowd. The men were sitting up-
right, fascinated, looking back at him with staring
eyes and mouths agape. He had hit them where
they lived. Moore looked about him in a startled
way and nudged Bullard.
“Can you tie that?” he whispered, awe-struck.
He had been in the ship many years and had never
seen anything like it. All the skymen he knew
had been more concerned with the present and the
immediate future than the hereafter, and the Polli-
wogs were an especially godless lot. The follow-
ers of their own chaplain could be numbered on
the fingers of the two hands.
Brimstone Bill went on. Little by little he
warmed to his subject until he soon arrived at a
stage where he ranted and raved, jumped up and
down, tore his hair and beat his breast. He thun-
dered denunciations, pleaded and threatened,
storming all over the place purple-faced. His
auditors quailed in their seats as he told off their
shortcomings and predicted the dire doom that
they were sure to achieve. His theology was sim-
ple and primitive. His pantheon consisted of but
two personages — the scheming devil and himself,
the savior. His list of punishable iniquities was
equally simple. The cardinal sins were the ordi-
nary personal petty vices — drinking, smoking,
gambling, dancing and playing about with loose
women. There was but one redeeming virtue,
SUPPORT THE CAUSE!
That was all there was to it. An hour of ex-
hortation and a collection. When he paused at the
end of his culminating outpouring of fiery oratory,
he asked for volunteers to gather in the offerings.
Three petty officers stood up, received commodious
leather bags, and went among the audience stuffing
them with whatever the men present had in their
pockets. For no one withheld anything, however
trifling. The sermon, if it could be called that,
was an impressive success. Then the lights came
on bright, Brimstone Bill left the stage clutching
the three bags, and the men filed out.
“Amazing,” said Moore, as he sat with Bullard
and Watched the show. “Why, the fellow is an
arrant mountebank!”
“Quite so,” agreed Bullard, “but the men seem
to like it. Come, let’s go.”
The next day saw a very different atmosphere
in the ship. About two thirds of the crew had
34
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
heard the preaching, the remainder being on duty.
Those went about their tasks silently and thought-
fully, as if pondering their manifold sins. They
had to take an enormous amount of kidding from
their shipmates and a good many black eyes were
in evidence by the time the ship slid down into
her landing skids at Juno Skydock. Bullard did
not let that disturb him; to him it was a healthful
sign.
As soon as the ship was docked, he went out
and met the dockmaster, who, as he had suspected,
was an incompetent drone. No, he had only four-
teen men available — he had not been expecting the
ship — they would get at the job tomorrow or next
day — or at least part of them. No, there was a
local rule against working overtime — no, the ship's
force could not help — six Earth weeks, he thought,
barring accidents, ought to do the trick. Oh, yes,
they would be very thorough. At Juno they were
always thorough about everything.
Moore started threatening the man, stating he
would report him to the grand admiral for ineffi-
ciency, but all Bullard said was :
“Skip it, you’re wasting breath. These people
have just two speeds — slow ahead and stop. Put
pressure on them and they backfire. Go back
aboard and post the liberty notice. Unlimited
liberty except for the men actually needed to
stand watch. And see that this goat gets a copy.”
Moore shook his head. Something had hap-
pened to Bullard. Of course, the man was up
against a stone wall, but he could at least make a
show of a fight. It was a terrible thing to see a
fighting man give up so easily. In the meantime
Bullard had walked away and was talking with
Brimstone Bill and Benton, who had just emerged
from the lock and were looking around.
There were lively doings ashore that night.
Most of the contingent that had not heard the
Rev. Zander’s moving sermon went as early as
possible, ostensibly to look around and do a little
shopping. In the end they wound up by getting
gloriously drunk. It was a bedraggled and
miserable-looking lot that turned up at the ship
the next morning and there were many stragglers.
A patrol had to be sent out to comb the dives and
find the missing ones. Many had been robbed or
cheated of all they had, and some had been in-
discreet enough to draw all their money before
they went. Captain Bullard lined up the most
serious of the offenders at “mast” and handed out
the usual routine punishments — a few days’ re-
striction to the ship.
After that things were different. The next day
Benton and Brimstone had suceeded in renting an
empty dancs hall. As Bullard had guessed, things
were dull that year in Herapolis. A gang of en-
thusiastic volunteers — Polliwog converts to Brim-
stone’s strange doctrines — busied themselves in
making the place ready as a tabernacle. The last
touch was a neon sign bearing the same wording
Bullard had seen on that other tabernacle in
steamy Venus. Brimstone Bill was about to do
his stuff in a wholesale way.
That afternoon when work was done, the entire
liberty party marched in formation to the hall and
there listened to another of Brimstone’s fiery
bursts of denunciation. The denizens of the town
looked on at the swinging legs and arms of the
marching battalion and wondered what it was all
about. They supposed it was some newfangled
custom of the Patrol Force and that whatever it
was, it would soon be over and then they would
have plenty of customers. The barkeeps got out
their rags and polished the bars ; gamblers made a
last-minute check-up of the magnetic devices that
controlled their machines; and the ladies of the
town dabbed on the last coat of their already abun-
dant make-up.
But no customers came that night. For hours
they could hear the booming, ranting voice of
Brimstone roaring about Hell and Damnation,
punctuated by periods of lusty singing, but except
for an occasional bleary-eyed miner, no patron ap-
peared to burden their tills and lighten their
hearts. At length the strange meeting broke up
and the men marched back to their ship in the
same orderly formation they had come.
This went on for a week. A few at a time, the
members of the first liberty party recovered from
their earlier debauch and ventured ashore again,
but even those were soon snatched from circula-
tion as their shipmates persuaded them to hear
Brimstone “just once.” Once was enough. After
that they joined the nocturnal demonstration. It
was uncanny. It was unskymanlike. Moreover,
it was lousy business. Spies from the townspeople
camp who peered through windows came back and
reported there was something funnier about it
than that. Every night a collection was taken up,
and it amounted to big money, often requiring
several men to carry the swag back.
Strong-arm squads searched the town’s flop-
houses to find out where the pseudo-evangelist was
staying, but in vain. They finally discovered he
was living on the Pollux. A committee of local
“merchants” called on Captain Bullard' and pro-
tested that the ship was discriminating against
them by curtailing the men’s liberty. They also
demanded that Brimstone Bill be ejected from
the ship.
“Practically the entire crew goes ashore every
day,” said Bullard, shortly, “and may spend the
night if they choose. What they do ashore is
their own affair, not mine. If they prefer to listen
to sermons instead of roistering, that’s up to them.
As far as the preacher is concerned, he is a
refugee civilian, whose safety I am responsible
for. He is in no sense under orders of the Patrol
BRIMSTONE BILL
35
Force. If you consider you have a competitive
problem, solve it in your own way.”
The dive owners’ impatience and perplexity
turned into despair. Something had to be done.
They did all that they knew to do. They next
complained to the local administrator — a creature
of Fenning’s — of the unfair competition. That
worthy descended upon the tabernacle shortly
thereafter, backed by a small army of suddenly
acquired deputies, to close the place as being an
unlicensed entertainment. He was met by a deter-
mined Patrol lieutenant and a group of hard-faced
Polliwog guards who not only refused to permit
the administrator to serve his warrant, but in-
formed him that the meeting was immune from
political interference. It was not amusement, but
religious instruction, and as such protected by the
Constitution of the Federation.
The astounded administrator looked at the steely
eyes of the officer and down to the browned, firm
hand lying carelessly on the butt of a Mark XII
blaster, and back again into the granite face. He
mumbled something about being sorry and backed
away. He could see little to be gained by frontal
attack. He went back to his office and sent off a
hasty ethergram to his esteemed patron, then sat
haggardly awaiting orders. Already the senator
had made several inquiries as to receipts since the
cruiser’s arrival, but he had delayed reporting.
The answer was short and to the point. “Take
direct action,” it said. The administrator scratched
his head. Sure, he was the law on Juno, but the
Pollux represented the law, too, and it had both
the letter of it and the better force on its side.
So he did the other thing — the obvious thing for a
Junovian to do. He sent out a batch of ethergrams
to nearby asteroids and then called a mass meeting
of all his local henchmen.
It took three days for the armada of rusty little
prospectors’ ships to finish fluttering down onto
the rocky wastes on the far side of Herapolis.
They disgorged an army of tough miners and
bruisers from every little rock in the vicinity. The
mob that formed that night was both numerous
and well-primed. Plenty of free drinks and the
mutual display of flexed biceps had put them in
the mood. At half an hour before the tabernacle
meeting was due to break up, the dive keepers all
shut up shop, and taking their minions with them
began to line the dark streets between Brimstone’s
hall and the skydock.
“Yah! Sissies!” jeered the mob, as the phalanx
of bluejackets came sweeping down, arm in arm
and singing one of Brimstone’s militant hymns in
unison. By the dim street lights one could see
that their faces were lit up with the self-
satisfaction of the recently purified. In the midst
of the phalanx the little preacher trotted along,
surrounded by the inevitable trio of petty officers
AST— 3G
with the night’s collection.
An empty bottle was flung, more jeers, and a
volley of small meteoric stones. The column
marched on, scorning to indulge in street brawl-
ing. Then a square ahead they came to the miners,
drawn up in solid formation from wall to wall.
The prospectors were armed with pick handles and
other improvised clubs. They did not jeer, but
stood silent and threatening.
“Wedge formation,” called Benton, who was up
ahead. “Charge!”
The battle of the Saints and Sinners will be re-
membered long in Juno. That no one was killed
was due to the restraint exercised by Benton and
MacKay, who were along with the church party.
Only they and the administrator had blasters, and
the administrator was not there. Having mar-
shaled his army, he thought it the better part of
valor to withdraw to his office where he could get
in quick touch with the senator if need be.
Dawn found a deserted street, but a littered one.
Splintered clubs, tattered clothes, and patches of
drying blood abounded, but there were no corpses.
The Polliwogs had fought their way through,
carrying their wounded with them. The miners
and the hoodlums had fled, leaving their wounded
sprawling on the ground behind, as is the custom
in the rough rocklets. But the wounded suffered
only from minor broken bones or stuns, and sooner
or later crawled away to some dive where they
found sanctuary. There had been no referees, so
there was no official way to counteract the bom-
bastic claims at once set up by both sides. But
it is noteworthy that the Polliwogs went to church
again the next night and were unmolested by so
much as a catcall on the way back.
“I don’t like this, captain,” Moore had said that
morning as they looked in on the crowded sick bay
where the doctors were applying splints and ban-
dages. “I never have felt that charlatan could be
anything but bad for the ship. He gouges the men
just as thoroughly as the experts here would have.
Now this!”
“They would have thrown their money around,
anyway,” grinned Bullard, “and fought, too. It’s
better to do both sober than the other way.”
That afternoon the administrator rallied his
bruised and battered forces and held a csuncil of
war. None would admit it, but a formation has
advantages over a heterogeneous mob even in a
free-for-all. What do next? There was a good
deal of heated discussion, but the ultimate answer
was — infiltration. The tabernacle sign read, “Come
one, come all,” and there was no admission. So
that night the hall was surrounded by waiting
miners and a mob of the local bouncers long before
the Rev. Zander arrived. Tonight they would
rough-house inside.
He beamed upon them.
36
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“Come in, all of you. There are seats for all.
If not, my regular boys can stand in the back.”
The roughs would have preferred to the stand-
ing position, but the thing was to get in and mix.
So they filed in. By the time Brimstone Bill
mounted the rostrum the house was crowded, but
it could have held more at a pinch.
He was in good form that night. At his best.
“Why Risk Damnation?” was his theme, and as he
put it, the question was unanswerable. It was
suicidal folly. The gaping miners let the words
soak in with astonished awe; never had they
thought of things that way. Here and there a
bouncer shivered when he thought of the per-
petual fires that were kept blazing for him on some
far-away planet called Hell. They supposed it
must be a planet — far-off places usually were.
They were not a flush lot, but their contribution
to the “cause” that night was not negligible.
There was little cash money in it, but a number
of fine nuggets, and more than one set of brass
knuckles and a pair of nicely balanced blackjacks.
Altogether Brimstone Bill was satisfied with his
haul, especially when he saw the rapt expressions
on their faces as they made their way out of the
tabernacle.
The administrator raved and swore, but it did
no good. The chastened miners were down early
at the smelter office to draw what credits they
had due; the bouncers went back to their dives
and quit their jobs, insisting on being paid off in
cash, not promises. All that was for the cause.
There were many fights that day between groups
of the converted and groups of the ones who still
dwelt in darkness, but the general results were
inconclusive. The upshot of it was that the re-
mainder of the town went to the tabernacle that
night to find out what monkey business had been
pulled on the crowd they had sent first.
The collection that night was truly stupendous,
for the sermon’s effect on the greater crowd was
just what it had been on all the others. Not only
was there a great deal of cash, but more weapons
and much jewelry — though a good deal of the
jewelry upon examination turned out to be paste.
The administrator had come — baffled and angry —
to see for himself. He saw, and everyone was sur-
prised to note how much cash he carried about
his person. What no one saw was the ethergram
he sent off to the senator that night bearing his
resignation and extolling the works of one Brim-
stone Bill, preacher extraordinary. He was thank-
ful that he had been shown the light before it was
too late.
An extraordinary by-product of the evening
was that early the next morning a veritable army
of miners descended upon the skydock and volun-
teered to help scrape the cruiser’s hull. Brim-
stone’s dwelling, they said, should shine and with-
out delay. That night even the dockmaster had
to grudgingly pronounce that the ship was clean.
The job was done. She was free to go.
Bullard lost no time in blasting out. Brimstone
Bill was tearful over leaving the last crop un-
gleaned. He insisted that they had been caught
unawares the first night, and the second they were
sure to bring more. But Bullard said no, they had
enough money for both their needs. The ship
could stay no longer. Bullard further said that
he would be busy with the details of the voyage
for the next several days. After that they would
have an accounting. In the meantime there would
be no more preaching. Brimstone Bill was to keep
close to his room.
At once all the fox in Brimstone rose to the top.
This man in gold braid had used him to exploit
not only his own crew but the people of an entire
planetoid and adjacent ones. Now he was trying
to cheat him out of his share of the take.
“I won’t do it,” said Brimstone, defiantly. “I’ve
the run of the ship, you said. If you try to double-
cross me, I’ll spill everything.”
“Spill,” said Bullard, calmly, “but don’t forget
what happened at Venus. The effect of the gadgets
wears off, you know. I think you will be safe in
the chaplain’s room if I keep a guard on the door.
But if you’d rather, there’s always the brig — ”
“I get you,” said Brimstone Bill, sullenly, and
turned to go. He knew now he had been out-
smarted, which was a thing that hurt a man who
lived by his wits.
“You will still get,” Bullard hurled after him,
“one half the net, as I promised you, and an easy
sentence or no sentence at all. Now get out of
my sight and stay out.”
It was a queer assembly that night — or sleep
period — for a space cruiser of the line. They met
in the room known to them as the “treasure house.”
Present were the captain, the paymaster. Lieuten-
ant Benton, and two of the petty officers who had
acted as deacons of Brimstone’s strange church.
The third was missing for the reason he was
standing sentry duty before the ex-preacher’s door.
Their first job was to count the loot. The money
had already been sorted and piled, the paper ten
to one hundred sol notes being bundled neatly,
and the small coins counted into bags. The mer-
chandise had been appraised at auction value and
was stacked according to kind.
“Now let’s see, Pay,” said Bullard, consulting
his notes, “what is the total amount the men had
on the books before we hit Juno?”
Pay told him. Bullard kicked at the biggest
stack of money of all.
“Right. This is it. Put it in your safe and
restore the credits. Now, how much did the hall
cost, sign, lights and all?”
Bullard handed that over.
“The rest is net — what we took from the asteroid
BRIMSTONE BILL
37
people. Half is mine, half is Brimstone’s. The
total?”
Benton was looking uneasy. He had wondered
all the time about what the fifty-fifty split meant.
He was still wondering what the skipper meant to
do with his. But the skipper was a queer one and
unpredictable.
“Fifty-four thousand, three hundred and eight
sols,” said the paymaster, “including the merchan-
dise items.”
“Fair enough. Take that over, too, into the
special account. Then draw a check for half of it
to Brimstone. Put the other half in the ship’s
amusement fund. They’ve earned it. They can
throw a dance with it when we get to Luna. I
guess that’s all.”
Bullard beckoned Benton to follow and left the
storeroom, leaving the two p. o.’s to help the pay-
master cart the valuables away to his own baili-
wick. There were still other matters to dispose
of. Up in the cabin Benton laid the “gadgets” on
the desk.
“What will I do with these, sir?” he wanted to
know. “They’re honeys! I hate to throw them
into the disintegrator.”
“That is what you will do, though,” said Bullard.
“They are too dangerous to have around. They
might fall into improper hands.”
“Now that it’s over, would you mind telling me
how these worked?”
“Not at all. We’ve known for a century that
high-frequency sound waves do queer things, like
reducing glass to powder. They also have pe-
culiar effects on organisms. One frequency kills
bacteria instantly, another causes red corpuscles
to disintegrate. You can give a man fatal anemia
by playing a tune to him he cannot hear. These
gadgets are nothing more than supersonic vi-
brators of different pitch such that sounded to-
gether they give an inaudible minor chord that
affects a portion of the human brain. When they
are vibrated along with audible speech, the lis-
tener is compelled to believe implicitly in every
word he hears. The effect persists for two or three
THE
NO FINER DRINK
days. That is why I say they are too dangerous
to keep. Brimstone could just as well have in-
cited to riot and murder as preach his brand of
salvation for the money it brought.”
“I see. And the ones carried in our pockets by
me and the boys were counter-vibrators, so we
didn’t feel the effects?”
“Yes. Like the ones you rigged in my box that
night we had the try-out up forward. Neither I
nor Commander Moore heard anything but ranting
and drivel.”
“Pretty slick,” said Benton.
Yes, pretty slick, thought Bullard. He had
stayed the prescribed time on Juno and had paid
off the crew and granted full liberty. Outside the
five men in his confidence, not a member of the
crew had had a hint that it was not desired that he
go ashore and waste his money and ruin his health.
“I’m thinking that the Pollux is not likely to be
ordered back to Juno soon,” said Bullard absently.
But Benton wasn’t listening. He was scratching
his head.
“That little guy Brimstone,” he said. “He isn’t
such a bad egg, come to think of it. Now that he’s
pulled us out of our hole, do you think you can
get him out of his, sir?”
“He never was in the hole,” said Bullard, reach-
ing for the logbook. “I needn’t have kept him at
all once I let him out of the brig. Read it — it was
on your watch and you signed it.”
Benton took the book and read.
“At 2204 captain held examination of prisoners; re-
manded all to brig to await action of the Bureau of
Justice except one Ignatz Zander, Earthman. Zander
was released from custody, but will be retained under
Patrol jurisdiction until arrival at base in the event the
Bureau should wish to utilize him as witness."
Benton looked puzzled.
“I don’t remember writing anything like that,”
he said.
“The official final log is prepared in this office,”
reminded Bullard, softly. “You evidently don’t
read all you sign.”
END.
. . . at sixteen— or sixty
38
THE CONTRABAND COW
By L. Sprague de Camp
• Author de Camp suggests that there might be peculiar political side-
lights and unexpected sorts of bootlegging under a Union Now scheme —
Illustrated by Kolliker
A bat zigzagged across the sluggish reach of
the lower Nueces, and Homer Osborn piled out
of the rowboat with the painter in one hand.
Since most of the boat’s load was now concen-
trated on its rear seat by Charles Kenny, its
bow rose high into the air, and Osborn had little
trouble in hauling the boat well up onto the sand
of the beach.
Then he took hold of the bow and braced his
legs to hold the craft level. Kenny grunted his
elephantine way slowly toward the bow, crouch-
ing and holding the gunwales with both hands,
and lifting his feet carefully over the fishing
tackle.
“Hey,” said Osborn, “don’t forget the critter!”
“Not so loud!” Kenny halted, backed one step,
reached under the middle seat, and brought up a
package the shape of a brick and a little larger.
Attached to this package by a stout cord was one
real brick. As Kenny raised the package, the
brick dangled revolving on the lower end of the
cord.
Osborn suggested: “If you untie it, we can
throw away the sinker — ”
THE CONTRABAND COW
39
“Naw,” said Kenny. “You don’t know how a real
fisherman does it, Homer. You want to keep your
sinker attached until you’re ready to cook your
critter. Then if a Fodals shows up, you heave
the evidence ka-plunk into the river. You cain’t
swallow half a pound of critter in one second,
you know.”
“O. K., boss,” said Osborn, and tied the painter
to the nearest pecan tree.
Kenny stretched his cramped muscles. “Now,
if we can just find a dry spot — ”
“Don’t think there is such a thing in this part
of Texas,” said Osborn with slight asperity.
“ — we’ll have plenty of time to get to Dinero
before she’s too dark.”
“With no fish for the girls.”
“Aw, Homer,” wheezed Kenny, “you don’t get
the i-dea. A real fisherman don’t care whether
he catches anything or not. Reckon this spot’ll
do.”
“If that's dry,” said Osborn, feeling the sandy
soil with his hand, “I’m a — ”
“Hush your mouth, Yankee, and help get some
wood. Careful; don’t go steppin’ on a snake. Used
to be ’gators in this part of the river, too ; I reckon
the hide hunters killed ’em all.”
Osborn returned after ten minutes of collecting
soggy scraps of firewood, to find Kenny, by some
private thaumaturgy, conjuring a fire out of a
heap of equally unpromising fuel.
When the fire was going, the massive depart-
ment head opened a can of beans and hung it in
the flames. Then he sat back,, uncorked the whis-
key bottle, took a swig, passed the bottle to Os-
born, and sat back looking at the deepening blue
sky.
“And to think,” he said, “that a young squirt
like you would give this up to go back to Brook-
lyn!”
“No snakes in Brooklyn, anyway.”
Kenny sighed. “When you learned to say
‘bird’ instead of ‘boid’ I thought I’d make a real
Texan out of you. Mebbe I will yet.”
“Not likely. Seriously, boss, you can find plenty
of biochemists, and it would mean so much to
Gladys and me — ”
“Not another biochemist who can make the
discovery of the age. You go on turnin’ out dis-
coveries of the age, and the San Antone labs will
go on gettin’ appropriations, and when your con-
tract’s up I’ll offer you another you cain’t afford
to turn — What’s that?” Kenny was silent for
a frozen quarter minute, then resumed : “Imagina-
tion, I guess. Unless, maybe, you are bein’ fol-
lowed."
“I’m not imagining that,” said Osborn. “You
know Pedro, who runs the steakeasy on Apache
Street? Well, he asked me — ”
“Pedro got padlocked the other day,” inter-
rupted Kenny.
“Yeah? You don’t say!”
“Yep! Damn fool insisted on servin’ roast beef.
It takes a long time to cook, and you’re apt to
have a lot left over, so the Fodals got him with the
evidence. What did he say to you?”
Osborn explained: “The word got out among
the leggers that this synthetic protein of mine
was going to put ’em out of business. I explained
that I could make a steak, all right, but it wouldn’t
taste like a steak and would cost twenty times as
much as a hunk of prime Mexican critter delivered
in San Antonio by a reliable steaklegger. He didn’t
seem convinced.”
“So now you think the leggers are out to get
you,” said Kenny. “Well, mebbe the repeal act
will pass when it comes up Monday in Delhi. The
Bloodies have tried hard enough; I’ve been up
all night this we§k gettin’ folks to write letters
and send telegrams.”
Osborn sighed. “Not likely, boss. The Hindus
disagree on everything else, but not on eating crit-
ter.”
“Here they lynched a Fodals in Dallas last
week,” said Kenny, poking at the fire. “Good
i-dea on general principles, but I’m afraid it won’t
do the Bloody vote no good come Monday.”
“You’re a fanatic,” said Osborn quietly. “Now
me, I vote Bloody, but I can take my critter or
leave it alone. What really gripes me is getting
my research mixed up in a prohibition question.”
“You wouldn’t care if your synthetic steak
stopped all this corruption and lawbreakin’? You’d
be famous!”
“Nope. Don’t want to be famous, outside the
technical periodicals. What I want is to get back
to Brooklyn.”
Kenny laughed and heaved himself to his feet.
“Looks like those coals are about ready for the
critter. You start it; I’m going to get me some
more wood. And any time you can figure how to
repeal the anti-vaccacide law, you can have your
contract back, and I’ll get you a new one in Brook-
lyn, Belfast, or any place you pick.”
Kenny crunched off into the brush, muttering
about the iniquity of a Union Now scheme which
gave the cow-worshiping sons of India, on a
straight population basis, a clear majority in the
Assembly of the Federation of Democratic and
Libertarian States.
Homer Osborn nervously unwrapped the pack-
age. The crackle of the heavy yellow paper seemed
inordinately loud. His mouth watered at the sight
of the steaks, for which he had paid his pet steak-
legger four dollars and fifty cents of his and
Charles Kenny’s money.
He then pulled a lot of pieces of heavy steel
wire out of his boot. These, when joined to-
40
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
gether, made a rickety but serviceable grid.
The sound of Kenny’s movements died away.
No, thought Osborn, he would never learn to like
Texas, really. The Gulf Coast region was fairly
comfortable this early in spring. But in a couple
of months San Antonio would be a baking in-
ferno, outside the laboratories —
He slapped a mosquito, and extended the grid
over the coals. A flame licked the fat on one of
the steaks, and a pearly drop fell into the coals,
sending up a brief spurt of yellow.
As the hiss of that drop of fat died out, some-
thing came out of the darkness and wrapped itself
like an affectionate anaconda around Homer Os-
born’s right wrist, and something else calmly took
the grid, steaks and all, away from him.
"You,” said a voice, “are under ar-r-rest for vio-
lation of the anti-vaccacide law, Title 9, Section
486 of the Criminal Code of the Federation!”
“Huh?” said Osborn stupidly. It had all been
done so swiftly and competently that he had not
recovered his wits.
“Which reads,” continued the voice, “Paragraph
1 : The eating of cattle, which term shall include
all animals of the subfamily Bovins of the family
Bovidas, the same comprising kine, buffaloes, bison,
zebus, gayals, bantengs, yaks, and species closely
related thereto, or of any parts or members thereof,
or of any hashes, gravies, soups, or other edible
products thereof, is hereby prohibited!”
“B-but, I wasn’t eating — ” In the twilight Os-
born could now make out the turban and beard of
a towering Sikh of the Border Patrol.
“Par-r-ragraph 2: The killing, for any purpose
whatever, and the assault, molestation, capture, im-
prisonment, sale, purchase, possession, transporta-
tion, importation into or exportation out of the
Federation of Democratic and Libertarian States,
or any territory subject to the jurisdiction thereof,
for purpose of eating, of cattle, as hereinbefore
defined in Paragraph 1 hereof — ”
“O. K., O. K.!” shouted Osborn, as the Patrol-
man carefully set down the evidence and with his
free hand snapped a handcuff on the culprit’s
wrist. “I know your damned law, and I think it’s
a lousy invasion of my personal liberty — ”
“I am sorry, sir,” purred the East Indian. “I
merely carry out my orders. Now let us go; it is
about a mile to my car.”
Osborn groaned, mentally consigning Mr. Clar-
ence Streit to the most elaborately sadistic hell
he could imagine. He thought of yelling for
Kenny, but decided that it would be better not to
involve his boss; Charley could do more for him
from outside the bars. ,
The thought that most pained Homer Osborn
was the recollection of how cocksurely he had
brushed aside his wife’s cautions before leaving.
Gladys would kid him about this in front of their
grandchildren, if they lived that long.
He let the Sikh tow him gently up the in-
finitesimal rise that passed for the bank of the
Nueces River. Better, he thought, make enough
noise to warn Kenny, so that the department head
should not blunder into them.
He declaimed: “Who do you think you are, to
come all the way from India to mix in our Ameri-
can affairs?”
“I am Guja Singh, sir, Patrolman Number 3,214.
As for the mixing, surely you know that the
Federation government was forced to send us of
India to enforce the anti-vaccacide law, because
none of your American officials could be trusted
to do so.”
"Yeah, but what business is it of yours in the
first place? I’m not hurting — ”
“Ah, but you are,” continued the soft, slightly
accented voice. “The sacrilege of vaccacide hurts
us of India to our very souls.”
“Well, but aren’t you a Sikh? I thought they
didn’t take this cow-worship business seriously.”
“We of the Udasi sect take it seriously, sir. Ob-
serve this branch and duck, please. Please, sir, do
no think too harshly of me because I do my duty.
Do you think we enjoy patrolling this hostile
land, where we dare not go out in your cities ex-
cept in pairs?”
“Well, why do it, sap?”
“You mean me personally, sir? I have a wife
and nine children to support. My father, though
he could have secured me a position at Delhi, was
reluctant to do so lest the charge of nepotism
be br-r-rought against him.”
“Who’s your father?”
“Sahib Arjan Singh, sir. You have heard of
him?”
“Sure. A politician.” Osborn put scorn into it.
Guja Singh sighed unhappily. “I fear we shall
never understand the mysterious West. Nothing
appears to please you — ”
They walked on in silence. Osborn cooled off
somewhat, and was thankful that his captor was
not a really tough guy, despite his formidable ap-
pearance. Still, Homer Osborn knew better than
to try to get away; he had met Fodals cops of this
superficially humble type before.
They reached the road, and a few rods away
Osborn made out the bullet shape of a patrol car
parked by the side. They were halfway to it
when Guja Singh halted and stood with his head
up silently, as if sniffing the air. Osborn strained
his ears, and thought he made out a whisper, unin-
telligible but urgent, from the trees.
“Put those up!” came a voice.
The Fodals released Osborn, jerked out his
pistol, and fired. Osborn had already started to
run when the flash and report from behind him
were mixed with a tingle of glass. Something
struck his body a light blow and shattered, and
THE CONTRABAND COW
41
as he took his next step he smelled geraniums.
He knew what that meant, and tried to stop breath-
ing—
But not quickly enough. His muscles all at
once began to jerk uncontrollably, as if he had St.
Vitus’ dance, and the sand came up and hit him
with a thud.
The convulsion — more exasperating than painful
— died, and hands tried to heave him to his feet.
His legs buckled, and a couple of them picked him
up and carried him, not too gently.
He tried to talk, but he could not control his
tongue: “Th upp sh mwa-a-a th uh uwz ze idea?”
No answer. Somewhere in the darkness an-
other contingent was breathing heavily as it toted
six-feet-three of Sikh patrolman. The sound of
a door latch compounded this, and Osborn made
out the shape of a vehicle, not Guja’s patrol car.
Somebody had a flashlight. Osborn saw dimly
that the conveyance looked like a rather large de-
livery truck.
“Don’t bother with him; he’s already got one
handcuff on.”
The response to this advice was to pull Osborn’s
unmanacled hand behind him and snap the empty
half of the pair of handcuffs over the wrist. Next
he was boosted into the body of the truck, and the
door boomed shut behind him.
As it did so a light flashed on, penetratingly,
right into his eyes.
“Sit down, you two.”
There were wisps of straw under Osborn’s feet,
and a definite smell of cow. Osborn knew that
he was in a cattle-runner’s truck. He sat, and
was aware of Guja Singh beside him. They were
seated on a bench built into the inner side of the
door at the rear of the body. At the front end
were that damned searchlight and — when his eyes
got accustomed to the glare — a pair of powerful-
looking dark men with submachine guns under
their arms.
The body jerked and swayed into motion ; there
was no sound from outside. Sound-insulation
that would keep the moo of a smuggled steer in
would likewise keep the noise of the external
world out.
“Who do you think you are and what do you
think you’re doing — ” began Osborn, but soon gave
up when no response was coming from the men
with the guns. He pushed himself into the angle
of the corner to keep from being thrown about
by the motion of the truck.
So his imagination had not played him tricks!
Next question, whose was the gang? Not one of
the indigenous steakleggers ; they were mostly in-
dividuals or small concerns, on amicable terms
with the local Texan police forces and hence con-
strained to the more seemly forms of illegality.
Highjackers? The method suggested it, but such
downright criminals would hardly concern them-
selves with anything so recondite as the syn-
thetic-protein experiments of the San Antonio
branch of the Federal Research Laboratories.
That left the great Mexican critter kings;
shadowy but sinister figures: the modern equiva-
lent of the old political generals who 'had run
Mexico back before the great period of Mexican
prosperity and peace in the middle of the century.
Some of Osborn’s scientific Mexican acquaintances
were bitter about the vaccacide law for having
conjured this robber-baron class out of its feudal
graves.
The truck body bounced and shuddered silently
over invisible miles. Homer Osborn thought a
great volume of private thoughts, and at last out
of sheer boredom went to sleep on Guja Singh’s
shoulder.
The motion was easier, though as far as one
could tell from the dark interior of the truck it
might have been up, down, or sideways. Then
it stopped altogether.
“Stand up,” commanded one of the guards.
They did, and the door swung open. The
searchlight winked off automatically, and was re-
placed by the vaster but more diffused light of
early morning on the desert.
Osborn had narrowed the list of kidnaper sus-
pects down to the Big Three: Ximinez, Dualler,
Stewart.
Endless, arid, gently rolling plain; patches of
white rock on brown dirt; occasional sage, mes-
quite, cactus — the last with bright-red or yellow
flowers; a hint of low, rugged mountains sur-
rounding the huge basin, already shimmering in
the heat: that meant Harmodio Dualler, even
though Homer Osborn had never before been in
the Bolsom de Mapimi.
“Jump down.”
Osborn gave the guard a venomous look and
jumped. He avoided falling, and, with Guja
Singh, was herded toward one of a small city of
adobe houses and barns. He saw that there were
a great many trucks parked about, most of them
with appropriately deceptive signs painted on
their weather-beaten sides: “Fort Worth Express
Co.,” “Lone Star Cleaners & Dyers,” “Pogbadian,
the House of Rugs.” An Indian vaquero with a
pink ribbon around his black hair trotted by on
a horse.
The others were no cowboys ; dark suits, Panama
hats, and not a serape in the lot. They shoved
Osborn and the Sikh through a gate in a wall,
revealing more hundreds of yards of adobe struc-
tures, until a big man in shirt sleeves came out
and spoke to them in Spanish. Osborn guessed
this to be Harmodio Dualler; powerful, sallow,
not fat but with a big roll of fat around his neck.
Dualler looked sharply at Guja Singh, and asked
the boss of the kidnapers what the obscenity he
42
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
meant by bringing this one. The boss kidnaper
stopped flicking the dust off his shoes with his
handkerchief, shrank visibly, and squeaked that
Osborn had not been alone for a minute, and that
therefore it was necessary either to bring this one
too or to let the prey go, and he had been merely
trying to do his duty —
“I obscenity on God!” roared Harmodio Dualler,
“hast thou no more brains than a burro? But
I will attend to thee later; bring these ones in.”
Seated behind his desk with his hat still on,
Dualler dug out a package of gum which he of-
fered to his prisoners. They did not consider it
politic to refuse. When all three were chewing,
Dualler said in good English: “I am sorry there
has been a little mix-up here — ”
"How long,” interrupted Osborn, “do you think
you can get away with this? I’m a citizen of the
Federation — ”
Dualler laughed softly. “Pipe yourself down,
my friend. The nearest town is Cuatro Cienegas,
and that is fifty miles across the desert, and what
Harmodio Dualler says in the state of Coahuila,
that goes.”
“Well, what do you want of us?”
“Of you, it is simple. I want all your samples
of this phony critter that you have mad’e, and all
your notes and writings. All your everything
that has to do with it. Understand?”
“Uh-huh,” said Osborn. “I thought so.”
“As to this one,” said Dualler, eying the Sikh,
“it was a stupidity that he was ever captured. I
can’t shoot you, my friend, because your patrol
will come looking for you; and I can’t hold you
prisoner until you die of old age, and I can’t let
you go. So what am I to do with you?”
Guja Singh said loftily: “You can give me back
my lost honor.”
“Now how do I do that thing?”
“You can fight me like a man. Guns, knives,
anything you say.”
Dualler sighed. “Mr. Osborn, what can I do
with such a foolish one? He thinks I’m an old-
time caballero fighting duels like in the movies.
I’m a businessman. Your country has all gone to
hell since you let those Asiatics in, though I don’t
complain because it makes much business for me.
Hernan, take this one away.
“Now, Mr. Osborn,” continued the critter king,
“I’ll tell you what I will do. Tomorrow I will
arrange a television hookup in a confidential chan-
nel — you have got a secretary?”
“I’ve got an assistant.”
“Good. You will tell this assistant to pack up
all your phony-critter stuff and take it to an ad-
dress in Laredo, where a man of mine will pick
it up. You must make it plain if your assistant
misses something that would make it so another
one could do the same thing, you . . . uh . . . it’ll
be just too bad.”
“Meaning?”
Dualler looked embarrassed. “Don’t make me
talk of these unpleasant things right out, Mr. Os-
born. I hate to have my guests get accidentally-
like killed, especially a so young and promising
one.”
Osborn protested: “You’re all wet, Senor Dual-
ler. My synthetic protein can’t possibly compete
with the real thing — ”
Dualler heard him out, then said : “Ah, yes, that
is the thing I would say if I was in your place.
Even if you are telling the truth, which I don’t
believe, I know that in this so wonderful Age of
Science you will quickly improve your product.”
“But listen, damn it, I’ll prove to you — ”
“No use, Mr. Osborn. Take this one away, too,
Jesus-Maria.”
Osborn was taken to a cell-like room: sparse but
comfortable furniture; a small, high, barred win-
dow; a lack of furnishings and ornaments that
could be put to practical use by a prisoner on es-
cape bent. The heat was severe, even after Osborn
had stripped to his shorts. He wondered why a
man as rich as Harmodio Dualler had not air-con-
ditioned his ranch, until he remembered the
scarcity of water in the Bols6m de Mapimi.
The only concession that Dualler had made to
his boredom was a carton of cigarettes. When he
got hungry, he pounded on the heavy oak door
and yelled. Nothing happened.
In fact, Osborn was convinced by sunset that
he had never spent a day of such exquisitely hor-
rible boredom in his life. If being in jail was
like this, he resolved never to do anything that
would land him in such a predicament.
Before dark he was let out and taken to eat
with the gang, who treated him with carefully
controlled politeness. Guja Singh was there, too,
looking famished.
When the Sikh sat down, he took one look at
his plate and half rose. “I can’t eat critter, Dual-
ler! It’s against my beliefs, and I’m still an of-
ficer — ”
“That’s all right,” beamed Dualler. “Some of
Mr. Osborn’s synthetic beef, specially removed
from his laboratory.”
Osborn looked at Guja’s plate, and knew at once
that he had never turned out such a realistic imi-
tation of a steak. Guja, after going through a
mental struggle, tried the steak.
He chewed a few times, then said judicially:
“That is not bad. If this is the imitation, no
wonder the Americans go to such illegal lengths
to get the real thing — ”
Osborn had taken a bite of his own to make
sure, and spoke up: “That is the real thing, Guja;
they fooled you.”
“What? Why — ” The Sikh burst out with
an inarticulate roar and bounded to his feet, his
THE CONTRABAND COW
43
rawhide-bottomed chair going over with a crash.
He knocked one of the Mexicans clear across the
table before the rest piled on him.
The fight did not last long ; the patrolman
seemed suddenly to go limp with weariness, and
let his antagonists fasten themselves to his arms.
His dark face was pale and glum, as if the last
spiritual prop had been knocked out from under
him.
“I am ruined,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Singh,” said Dualler. “It’s
not as bad a thing as that. I just had to make
sure you would not make trouble for us when I
let you go.” At this point a grinning henchman
appeared with his hands full of motion-picture
camera and sound-track recorder. “You see, Jesus-
Maria has made a nice record of this scene, in
three-dimension color. That goes in my safe.
When you get back to your headquarters, you tell
them you got drunk — ”
“I don’t drink,” moaned Guja Singh.
“Well, then, that you got full of the marijuana.
Anyway, you will know nothing about Mr. Osborn,
and nobody will know you ate the critter.”
“I am ruined,” was all the Sikh would say, until
they took him back to his room.
“Sst! Osborn!”
Homer, getting ready for bed, looked around for
the source of this whisper, which sounded as if it
came from miles away. After looking in the closet
and under the bed, he located its source in the
little window. He stood oh his chair and opened
the fly screen.
“Guja?”
“Yes. Put your hand out and catch this.”
Osborn, wondering, did so. Something swung
up and past his window; after several tries he
caught it. It was the end of a long strip of cloth,
to which was tied a small automatic pistol. Guja
Singh had been swinging the strip of cloth by its
other end from the next window.
“Where’d you get this?” asked Osborn.
“They did not think to search my turban.” Os-
born realized that the strip of cloth was the patrol-
man’s unwound headgear. “Take the pistol; you
will need it. I heard a couple of Dualler’s men
talking of how they were going to kill you as soon
as they get your scientific things; they did not
know I understand Spanish.”
“But what about you?”
“Never mind me. Good-by.” And the turban-
cloth was hauled back with a faint hiss through
the bars of Guja’s window.
Osborn reasoned that he had better keep his
pants on in order to have a pocket in which to
carry the gun. He was donning them when there
were excited shouts from outside, and the sound
of men running. Osborn could not make out the
words, and presently the hubbub died away with-
out his being enlightened.
But the next morning Guja Singh appeared
without his turban, and looking more gaunt and
hopeless than ever.
“He tried to hang himself by that head-scarf of
his,” explained Harmodio Dualler. “We had to
dope him to put him to sleep.” The critter king
shook his head. “I thought I knew how to handle
men, but with a so unreasonable one as this one —
Ts, ts. I’m glad you are a reasonable one, Mr.
Osborn. Now we will go in the communication
room; everything is set up.”
The room in question had a television booth at
one side. Swank, or love of gadgets, thought Os-
born; in the United States few private telephone
subscribers cared to have their expense quad-
rupled for the doubtful privilege of being able to
see the faces of persons with whom they were ar-
ranging a bridge date or arguing about a grocery
bill.
But there was the contraption, and Osborn
knew that there was one in Charley Kenny’s office
as well. They did come in handy in conversations
where the identity of one of the speakers was
open to question. This perhaps explained Dual-
ler’s use of a set, since he was engaged in a busi-
ness that was illegal according to the laws of the
Federation if not the laws of the United States
of Mexico.
Dualler explained in detail what Osborn was to
tell his assistant, and they sat chummily on the
bench in front of the ike. The ubiquitous Jesus-
Maria lounged against the far wall of the room
with a gun in plain sight.
The call was put through; Kenny’s round face
snapped into focus on the screen.
“Homer!” cried Kenny. “Where in God’s name
are you?”
Dualler murmured: “Tell him — ”
The critter king broke off as he observed that
the hard object which had suddenly been dug into
his ribs was the small pistol which Osborn had
received from the Sikh.
“Just a minute, boss,” said Osborn. He gave
his head an infinitesimal jerk toward the unsus-
pecting Jesus-Maria, and told Dualler: “Send him
out — and tell him to send Guja Singh in here.”
Dualler smiled. “Do I have to search — ” Os-
born jabbed him with the muzzle, and the Mexican
stopped his sentence and gave the required order.
Homer Osborn’s muscles quivered tautly, and
he could feel that Dualler’s were, too ; the slightest
relaxation on his part, and either Dualler would
be shot or would attack him, roaring an alarm.
“Boss,” he told the visiscreen, “this is impor-
tant. First, can you arrange to switch this call
to the house of a Hindu politician named Arjan
Singh in Delhi?”
Kenny’s jowls quivered and his voice rose to a
44
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
squeak. “Are you nuts, Homer? Think of the
expense, and it’s the middle of the night in In-
dia—”
“I know. Can you?”
“I ... I reckon so, if it’s a life-or-death matter.”
“It is.” Osborn raised his right hand to bring
the gun momentarily into the view of the ike.
“Any minute now, Senor Dualler and I will be
trying to kill each other.”
Kenny’s eyes popped, but he buzzed his switch-
board operator and told her what to do. While
they waited for the connection, Osborn told Kenny
what had happened. He finished: “Now that you
know where I am and everything, boss, I think
Senor Dualler understands that he can’t bump me
off the way he was planning to.”
“He was goin’ to murder one of my research-
ers?” exploded Kenny. “Why, you fat, yellow
slob, you — ”
The department head had not yet run out of
expletives when Guja Singh entered, and almost
immediately afterward Kenny’s operator an-
nounced that the call to Delhi was through.
Dualler was still silently smiling, though in a
dark and dangerous manner. The screen winked,
and in place of Kenny appeared a bald, brown,
hook-nosed man in a dimly lit booth.
“Whozh calling me from Texas thish time of
night?” yawned the newcomer.
Osborn, still keeping an eye on Dualler, asked:
“That your old man, Guja?”
“Guja!” cried the image, suddenly wide awake;
it rattled a string of questions in Hindustani.
“Easy, mister,” said Osborn. “Guja, how many
votes does you father control in the Assembly?”
“Three.”
“Let’s see — three from thirty-seven is thirty-
four ; that’ll do it. Fine. You, Dualler, move over
this way. Guja, you take Dualler’s place.” Os-
born slid off the end of the bench to remove him-
self and his gun from the field of the ike. He
lowered his voice to a murmur to Dualler. “You
tell Mr. Arjan Singh that you’ll bump off his son
if he doesn’t switch those votes in favor of repeal
tomorrow. Get it?”
Dualler did so. Arjan Singh’s eyes popped; he
cried an agonized question at Guja. After some
Hindustani dialogue, Arjan Singh announced in a
voice of brave despair: “If it is God’s will that my
son shall die, he shall die. He will not betray the
family honor.”
“Then tell him,” Osborn ordered Dualler sotto
voce, “that when he arrived here you got him
drunk so he ate a steak, and you’ve got a movie
record of it, and will publish it if the votes aren’t
changed. That for the family honor!”
This threat finally broke down father and son.
“I’ll do it,” said Arjan Singh, “but how do I know
you will go through with your part?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” smiled Dualler. “It is
nothing to me if this one eats a whole steer at
one sitting.”
“But what is your object? This is a strange
piece of black — ”
Osborn reached over and pushed the switch.
Harmodio Dualler turned a puzzled face up to
Osborn. He said softly: “I don’t understand, my
friend. The other, yes, but not this, unless it is to
cause that funny vaccacide law to be repealed . . .
that is it!”
“Yep,” said Osborn. “Now — ”
“So,” interrupted Dualler, “we rancheros will no
longer enjoy our position, eh? Those obscenities
in Mexico City will not be afraid of us, and they
will steal our ranches to divide among the peons,
as they did under Cardenas? The critter business
of Mexico will again be destroyed? Very well,
you have ruined me, Mr. Osborn, but you won’t
live to — ” And Dualler hurled himself on Homer.
For a big man, he moved with rattlesnake speed ;
one hand caught Osborn’s right wrist and twisted
it violently before Osborn had the presence of
mind to shoot. The other caught Osborn’s neck
in a vise.
“Guja! Catch!” cried Osborn, wriggling in this
grizzly-bear hug. He flipped the pistol toward
the Sikh, who caught it, stuck the muzzle into
Dualler’s ribs, and fired three times, the sharp
crack muffled by the critter king’s clothing.
Then there was a knock on the door, and Jesus-
Maria’s anxious voice: “Is all well with thee,
boss?”
“Lock it,” said Osborn, and he began searching
furiously about the room for inflammables.
Guja Singh shot the bolt home, whereat there
were heavier knocks and loud demands for ad-
mittance.
“Mr. Osborn,” said Guja Singh, “how will you
get those films out of the safe?”
“Think this place will burn?”
“Why, with all those oak beams, yes. I see!”
The patrolman fell to work building the bonfire.
Osborn lit the pile of crumpled papers at the base,
and a tremendous bang on the door announced
that the gang were trying to batter their way in.
The fire crackled and roared upward; the heat
and smoke became nauseating.
Osborn told Guja Singh: “You pick up Dualler
and make as if you were carrying him out from an
accident. Lucky those bullet holes didn’t bleed
much.”
Guja Singh heaved the massive body over his
shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Then Osborn threw
the bolt, to confront a lot of amazed Mexicans
with guns in their hands.
“The machine exploded,” he announced. “Your
boss is hurt, and the place is on fire.” The last
statement was not strictly necessary, as the com-
munications room was a roaring oven.
THE CONTRABAND COW
45
The gang scattered with cries of alarm, yelling
contradictory directions at each other to fetch
water, fetch blankets, run for their lives.
Osborn and Guja strolled to the front door and
out, through the courtyard, out the gate, and to-
ward the truck park before somebody yelled :
“Hey, you, where do you theenk you are going
with our boss?”
Guja dropped the corpse, and the two dashed to
the nearest truck. The key was in the ignition
lock and the fuel tank was full. With gunfire
crashing behind them, they whirled the vehicle
around on two wheels and streaked down the road
toward Cuatro Cienegas.
At 5:00 p. m. they arrived at the San Antonio
laboratories. Somebody spotted them, and before
they reached the Administration Building Charley
Kenny rushed out to greet them on the front steps.
“Where’s Gladys?” gasped Osborn.
“She went home; when we didn’t hear from you
all day — ”
“We’ve been driving like bats from hell — ”
“Yes; how did you escape — ”
“Did the repeal act pass?”
“Sure, by one vote. Hey, George ! Run in and
phone Mrs. Osborn that Homer’s back — ”
“I'll phone her myself — ”
“But wait, you haven’t told me — ”
While this was going on, people began stream-
ing gradually up as if drawn by a magnet. They
paid little attention to anybody save Guja Singh.
The tall patrolman became visibly uneasy under
their regard. He muttered: “What is this, an-
other lynching? I think I’d better go.”
He started to walk dignifiedly off ; the crowd
closed in on him and followed. He began to run,
but the mob, with one Texan roar, pounced on him.
“Hey!” cried Osborn.
“It’s all right,” said Kenny.
“The hell it’s all right! Gimme a gun or some-
thing — ”
He broke off as he observed the actions of the
crowd, which, instead of tearing the Sikh to
pieces, had hoisted him on their shoulders and
were parading him down the street with deafening
cheers. Guja Singh looked bewildered.
Kenny explained: “Our switchboard operator
listened in on your conversation with that guy
in India, and she got it sort of mixed up, but
reckoned as how your patrolman friend was makin’
his old man swing the repeal vote. Anyway, that’s
her story, and all San Antone thinks he’s respon-
sible. Was he, or did you have a hand in it?
Cain’t imagine Harmodio Dualler doin’ it of his
own accord.”
Osborn explained what had happened.
“Then it was your doin’! We’ll have to see
that the credit goes to you, instead of that — ”
“I don’t want the credit!” said Osborn. “All I
want is to call my wife and tell her the good
news !”
“What good news?” But Osborn had broken
away and run into the building. Kenny followed
as fast as his bulk allowed. He reached the phone
booth in time to hear Osborn shout: “ — Gladys?
I got the greatest news in the world ! We’re going
back to Brooklyn!”
THE END.
iog, figjh* edge making.
RIGHT, BUDDY! THE NEW
6NXCQM8mTI0N PRODUCES
DOUBLE EDGE BLADES
INTRODUCTORY OFFER!
5 ICK
15 >° r 25*
Star Division, American Safety Razor Corp.. Brooklyn, N. Y.
46
PENANCE
By David V. Reed
• A slight error during
Jones and Bascomb into
Well, we’ve been swapping yarns long enough
for you to kind of admit I know a few. Maybe
some of them are just all right, and some are better
than others, but one of the best I know is that one
about Fletcher Jones and his strange voyage to
Forelle, the land of the fire monsters. It’s a
romantic story, I suppose, but what story about
Jones could be otherwise?
It began in Exotica, on one of those incredibly
lovely evenings they have in that far-away world.
You know, warm south wind sweeping up from
the sultry Para Bay, tropical trees transplanted
from every planet in the System weaving like
native dancers in that warm south wind, and three
moons — count ’em: just as advertised by the
Exotican Chamber of Commerce — three moons,
friends, shining in the night sky like pools of
silver. I might have brought back some beautiful
memories from a place like that, but I didn’t.
Our ship, the USICS destroyer Star Swallow,
bound for war games and maneuvers, had space-
anchored off Exotica long enough to refuel and
take aboard Lieutenant Commander Ransom, our
squadron commander. But since we had come all
the way from the Tonda base on Mars in one jump,
Lieutenant Haddock, executive officer of the ship,
decided to let a large liberty party ashore. A
commendable idea, especially since I was to take
the party in myself. Ensign Jones, however, held
General Cheroot's orange
can gendarmery. So they
ance cruise. And
another opinion, which he expressed in his own
enigmatic way.
“Mr. Bascomb,” he said to me, “in the short
time that you have been aboard this ship I have
come to regard you as more than a brother officer,
carelessly assigned by fate to share my quarters.
I feel a deep affection for you, Mr. Bascomb, an
affection and an abiding — ”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Nothing doing, Mr.
Jones. Orders is orders. Affectionately yours,
Mr. Bascomb.”
“ — an abiding trust in your natural gentility of
nature. So it is without hesitation that I ask you
to weigh your orders against the innate nobility
of your instincts.”
“A fond farewell. Instinctively yours, Brother
Officer B.”
“Have you a cigarette?” said Jones, changing
pace abruptly. “My nerves are shot. Captain
Castle and Haddock ashore somewhere in a winery,
you going down with the liberty party — and me,
a pox on my young head, left to nurse this vessel
through a lonely night. Below, loveliness in
CRUISE
Illustrated by Orban
overcelebration got
trouble— that, and fat
f
uniform of the Exoti-
\
were sent on a pen-
what a cruise!
abundance, merriment, soothing liquids, cascades
of melody — and here a stony vigil, a rendezvous
with silence.”
He took a light from me, arranging for his hands
to tremble, while he simultaneously choked back
a sob and gave me a brave, fleeting Suicide Patrol
smile. I was through. In the end I countersigned
his liberty pass, a necessary business, though we
were of equal rank, because Lieutenant Haddock
had grimly informed me that the Exotican gen-
darmery had been instructed to honor only my
signature. Haddock had anticipated Jones’ crav-
ing for loveliness in abundance, Jones had antici-
pated Haddock, and I had anticipated Jones. I
ask you, did it help?
We left the ship in the launch, with Peters,
oiler extraordinary, currently afflicted with a bad
headache, in charge. Castle and Haddock would
return to the Star Swallow by morning, in time
for blast-off. We would be back at least an hour
before them. Castle and Haddock were at the
Genii Room, their favorite retreat, but we would
shun the place. Also, we would drink no more
u
than two; avoid heated discussions with strangers;
failing that, refrain from hitting back ; recoil from
conversation with any escorted ladies, no matter
how beautiful. The rigid enforcement of these
rules left to Mike Connally, Bos’n First Class,
faithful vassal of Jones, and pledged to sobriety ,
for the duration.
I mention this weary catalogue of good inten-
tions only because it figured prominently in our
court-martial the next morning.
By then the Star Swallow had overstayed long
enough to be joined by three more destroyers, a
cruiser and a ship of the line. This sad event,
together with rampant exaggerated versions of
our activities the night before, honored our court-
martial with the presence of Admiral Stone and
the commanding officers of our division, flotilla and
squadron. It was an instructive affair for every-
one, including Jones and myself, because we
couldn’t remember much of what had really hap-
pened. Let me quote several passages from the
record.
Admiral Stone : Let me get this straight. You, Mr.
Bak-bak, were the bartender for the party all evening.
They arrived, in your judgment, quite sober. Ensign
Jones had no more than two drinks. Ensign Bascomb
had one, and Bos’n Connally had none — yet all three
men, according to other witnesses, were in a state of
48
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
complete intoxication within fifteen minutes. How do
you account for it?
Bak-bak: (translated from Exotican) The incanta-
tions, perhaps.
Admiral Stone: What incantations?
Bak-bak: Mr. Jones insisted on them.
Captain Castle: Mr. Bak-bak, most of the members
of this court are unacquainted with the procedure in-
volved in mixing the drink which Ensign Jones called
for. Will you explain it, please?
Bak-bak: Delighted. You must know, gentlemen,
that we do not serve this drink to anyone. In order to
procure it, a password is absolutely required. You must
say, “Gabo esri mattana.” (Approximate translation:
“Gabriel sent me.”) After this I try to talk the cus-
tomer out of it. If I do not succeed, I adorn myself
with a special pair of smoked glasses, put on my rubber
gloves and begin. This drink, which has many names,
among them Chetatta — Witches Epitaph — and Fuoresa
del Karbai Onos — Carnivorous Flower of Interstellar
Civilization — is made from twenty-one ingredients. It
is usually brewed by our natives deep in the jungle.
The ingredients combine to form a flame of many colors
which is allowed to die. Then add two parts of soda.
Immediately a cloud of green steam forms, which is
captured in a special bottle, allowed to settle, and served
with a sprig of graveyard moss. This drink then per-
forms mirages, minor miracles and cures ulcers. Some-
times a customer insists on the accompanying incanta-
tions, in which case he is required to sign a release,
since the incantations undoubtedly —
Admiral Stone: I see. Do the natives drink this
brew?
Bak-bak: Never.
Commander Ransom: Mr. Connally, you believe you
were sober during the altercation at the Sirocco Club,
do you not?
Connally: I didn’t say that, sir. I said that if there
was any justice in this world, I would have remained
sober. Because I didn’t so much as take a sip of the
drinks, sir. All I did was inhale that green steam. It
was enough, sir.
Commander Ransom: Then what happened?
Connally: I died, sir.
Commander Ransom: You did what?
Connally: I died, sir. Instantaneous.
Admiral Stone: How do you account for your pres-
ence here now?
Connally: It must be one of them miracles Bak-bak
mentioned.
Admiral Stone: And what did you do when Mr. Jones
insisted that General Cheroot was a floating mine, sir?
Ensign Bascomb: I expressed my doubts, sir.
Admiral Stone: Nothing more, Mr. Bascomb?
Ensign Bascomb: Well, sir, truthfully speaking, I
wasn’t certain about anything I saw. I had no idea it
was General Cheroot or any other Exotican gendarmery
officer. At first I saw what appeared to be a man about
five feet tall and about four feet wide, dressed in a
bright-orange uniform, and it seemed to me that he was
escorting three very pretty girls. Then Mr. Jones
shouted that he saw a beautiful girl marooned in space
alongside an explosive floating space mine.
Ad/niral Stone: That convinced you?
Ensign Bascomb: Yes, sir. You see, I decided there
couldn’t be anybody five feet tall and four feet wide.
And he was wearing orange, which unfortunately coin-
cided with the standard color for mines. When Jones
shouted there was only one girl, I decided I was drunk
and seeing triple, especially because everything else was
blurred. So it seemed quite logical at the time that
Mr. Jones shouted. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t
move. My limbs seemed to be melting.
Admiral Stone: Your larynx, however, remained in
good shape, according to these other witnesses who
have testified that you sat at the bar and clamored for
Mr. Jones to hack the general with an ax.
Ensign Bascomb: I have been misquoted, sir. I
merely cheered Mr. Jones on with the old Academy yell
— “Brackety-ax-co-ax-co-ax, brackety-ax-co-ax: kill
’em!”
Commander Ransom: The rest of the particulars,'
please.
Sergeant Potho: (translated from Exotican) Ensign
Jones then escaped with the three ladies, committing
several assaults on my fellow members of the gen-
darmery on the way. He stole a motorcycle and sidecar,
ran into a passenger vehicle, assaulted the driver and
two of the passengers. He then appeared at the space-
port, where he claimed the launch of the Star Swallow,
which was waiting for the crew to return, and led the
three ladies into it. He was observed flying away in a
southeasterly direction, and was finally found hovering
over the local reservoir, demonstrating fancy diving.
At this time Ensign Bascomb was summoned, and he
persuaded Ensign Jones to land.
Commander Ransom: That ended the affair?
Sergeant Potho: No, sir. He landed the launch on
top of five of my men.
Admiral Stone: You are entitled to plead your own
defense.
Ensign Jones: I have no defense, sir. My only ex-
cuse, if I may call it such, is an overwhelming love of
beauty. My one regret is that I never learned to har-
ness my disastrous yearning for romance. I need affec-
tion, sir, and I need love, precisely the way the Star
Swallow needs fuel. In common parlance, sir, I am a
sucker for romance. I throw myself at the mercy of
the court.
Admiral Stone: Ah-h-h-h-h-h.
Well, the court-martial recessed and arrived at a
verdict within ten minutes. Only it didn’t recon-
vene to pass sentence. After the officers left the
gendarmery building, where all this had taken
place, Captain Castle and Lieutenant Haddock
came out and sat down beside us. The large room
was empty now except for us, and it was as silent
as a tomb. Captain Castle stared thoughtfully out
of a window, looking like a great, calm lion, and
now, as he licked his lips before speaking, the
picture assumed a macabre perfection.
“Well, Jones,” he sighed, “I did what I could.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I tried my best, Jones, believe me.”
“I know you did, sir.”
“I tried not to think of your past regrettable
interludes. The time you kidnaped that Tyuionian
princess, for instance, or that episode where you
sold the admiral’s dory to pay a band for serenad-
ing a girls’ school, or your amusing adventure
with that troupe of native dancers in Kayam. Or
was it Azberib? Yes, it was Kayam; I was con-
fusing it with that religious dance festival where
PENANCE CRUISE
49
the marines found you getting married. Anyway,
I tried not to think of the past, Jones.”
“I am deeply grateful, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Jones. Frankly,
there have been times when I imagined you felt
your superior officers were not quite . . . ah . . .
fond of you. Like last night, for instance, when
you were assigned late watch while the crew went
ashore. I wondered if you understood the motives
behind that. Be honest now, Jones. Have you
ever thought that either Lieutenant Haddock or
I didn’t like you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You see, lieutenant? I told you he thought
so.” The captain mused a moment, then added,'
reflectively, “Well, Jones, I can’t imagine where
you got that idea, except for the fact that we
loathe you, cannot abide the sight of you, and fre-
quently feel ill at the mention of your name.”
“I used to lie awake nights,” said Haddock,
“conjuring up visions of you being devoured by
some unspeakably weird animal.”
“At this very moment,” said Castle, “some thirty
or forty sorcerers in my employ are sticking pins
into images of you.” Surfeited with pleasantries,
he smiled a gentle, leonine smile. “So let me tell
you what the court-martial decided. It appears
that the Exotican authorities asked Admiral Stone
to detail a ship for a special, local mission. Be-
cause of the war games, no ship is available. How-
ever, you will be glad to hear that the gendarmery
recently purchased a military vessel, and is per-
fectly willing to undertake this mission except
for a dearth of trained officers.
“Do you follow me, gentlemen?” the captain
sighed with a glance at Jones. “You see, General
Cheroot himself proposed that we make a deal.
Seeing that he will personally command this ex-
pedition, and in view of your recent close contact
with him ... I see you understand. Both of you
have been assigned to courtesy duty as navigation
and gunnery officers in the Exotican Navy, or
whatever they call it.”
“Both of us!” I cried out. “Sir, you can’t mean
that—”
“But I do, Mr. Bascomb, believe me. You’re
the one who let Mr. Jones loose, a crime of con-
siderable magnitude.”
“But, sir!” I said. “Cheroot — ”
“General Cheroot, sir. Your superior officer.”
“Yes, sir. General Cheroot, after last night
. . . putting us in with him on this . . . it’s . . .
isn’t it ... he must be furious!”
“Far from it. As a matter of fact he seemed
quite amiable when he proposed dropping charges.
Of course, he is rather a peculiar man, as you may
discover, and he may have been pretending. These
Exoticans are sometimes difficult to fathom.”
Captain Castle’s smile had slowly dissolved as
he answered me. During his pronouncement he
had carefully regarded Jones, waiting for his re-
action. He seemed nettled by the fact that he had
elaborately staged this for Jones — and, make no
mistake about it, he had — and I had done the yell-
ing.
“Come now, Jones,” he said, half bitterly, “you’re
soon to be off on a secret mission with a remarkable
man, under conditions which must be regarded as
unusual. Surely you have some questions?”
I’ll say this for Jones: he didn’t bat an eye. I
knew what it meant to him to miss the war games.
He had kept me awake night after night talking
about them, eager and anticipating, and he had
spent most of his free time brushing up on his
navigation, because Captain Castle had promised
to let him act as navigator during the games. But
he calmly folded his arms and regarded Castle,
like a veteran, clever fish that was being offered
irresistible bait.
“Yes, sir,” Jones nibbled. “May I ask whether
this duty is to constitute the full penalty imposed
upon us by the court-martial?”
“Yes and no, Jones,” the captain played the
line. “No further penalties, and restoration to
active duty and all privileges upon satisfactory
completion of this assignment. However, you will
be required to keep a log which will be added to
your service record and submitted to Admiral
Stone, thereafter subject to all rewards and penal-
ties — precisely as if you were on duty with the
fleet.”
“Thank you, sir. And how long are we to be
gone?”
The captain smiled. “Only General Cheroot
can answer that.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jones, swimming away.
The captain seemed startled. “Well,” he said
abruptly, “aren’t you surprised at any of these
conditions? Don’t you wonder at the singular
generosity of the court-martial?”
“No, sir. You told me you had tried your best.
I think you succeeded admirably. Thank you
again, sir.”
Did you ever have a fish come up, eat your bait,
chew up your hook, swallow the sinker, line and
pole, and then belch in your eye? The captain
grew the least bit crimson around his collar. He
stood up, and we all stood with him, and he smiled
at Jones. So I knew that somewhere in the little
tidy vessel that Captain Castle had come fishing
with, there was a harpoon.
“My success,” he said, “will undoubtedly im-
press you more, in good time. Because there’s
no romance on this trip, Jones, no romance at all.
Believe me.”
With that, and a round of smart saluting by all
hands. Captain Castle and Lieutenant Haddock
left. I wanted to say something, but I was in a
daze. Jones’ visored cap was lying overturned on
a chair near me, and I could make out the little
50
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
letters inside : Ensign F. Jones. Idly, I thought,
F for Flamboyant, Foolhardy — a man with a mon-
strous weakness for all things Feminine. I asked
myself what I was doing there, and the answer
seemed quite clear: Fathead.
II.
A minute later, a gendarme came in and told us
that General Cheroot was waiting outside. We
went out into a sunny morning just as the surface
wagons that carried the fleet officers back to the
port were disappearing into their own dust. And
there, sitting in a taxiflier that had evidently been*
built for him, was the general.
I looked at him and I didn’t believe it. You
really had to be drunk the first time you saw him.
He was a round, enormous mass of smiling man,
swathed in billowing yards of green and crimson
uniform, blazing with medals, sashes and small
daggers. He waved to us and the daggers jingled,
and his reddish-tan face creased beautifically as
he let his smile out. When we were fifteen feet
away, we caught the first waft of the amalgam of
perfumes that rose from his body, withering the
atmosphere with a faint haziness like heat waves.
“How do, gents!” he cried, cordially.
I gulped, as I recall it. “You mean you ain’t
mad?” I said.
“Why I should be mad?” the general demanded.
“For last night? What has happen last night is
water in the britches ! Let gdnebys be good-by ! I
am so joyous to have two nize officers, young
mans, in such fine uniforms blue as the sky. Such
a wonderful day! But come — you will please to
amble along with me on an errand of inspection,
hey?”
“Hey!” said Jones.
We climbed into the taxiflier and it took off.
All the way to the Para blastport General Cheroot
spattered us with his unorthodox idioms. “I have
learned the English from correspondence school,”
he confided once, “and the rest I raise from the
magazines I read.”
When we got to the port, there were dozens of
gendarmes milling about. High overhead we could
see the misting forms of fleet launches returning
to their ships, and distant, flat smashes of thunder
told us that rockets were testing far away. Jones
turned his head away sharply and we followed the
general as he waddled out on the field.
In one corner of a huge blasting pit a battered
old hulk of a spaceship reclined. It was so in-
credibly rusty and ancient and begrimed that it
looked as if it had staggered into port to wheeze a
little and die, if only someone would let it.
“Behold!” the general gurgled, proudly. “This
is La Pochata Eggrimmaggratta! In English this
is mean, ‘The Bird with the Magnificent Wings
Like the Morning Sun’!”
“Did you say mourning?” said Jones.
“La Pochata Eggrimmaggratta,” said General
Cheroot, wagging his head vigorously, “is the
Navy of Exotica and I am the admiral.”
“I thought you were a general,” I said.
"I am,” Cheroot agreed, “but in this boat I am
also the admiral. Also, in the mountains behind
Para, I am the sheriff. Hey!”
Jones was about to answer with a similar shout
when he perceived it had been meant to call out
a squad of gendarmes. They came pouring out of
a hangar, little men as brown as Cheroot, grinning
merrily. At this moment, someone inside the ship
opened the crew lock, and with a sweeping bow,
invited us all to enter.
The inner door of the lock was about a yard
wide, a normal enough door, but when I juxtaposed
it against the general’s girth, I found myself with
an absorbing problem. Something would have to
give way if Cheroot really intended boarding the
vessel, and sizing the opponents up again, I figured
it thirteen to five on Cheroot or even money for
an Exotican stand-off.
When the gendarmes reached us, there was a
mutual exchange of bows — and suddenly the gen-
eral made a dash for the open door. He charged
down on it, his head lowered, his breath like the
trumpeting of an anguished bull, and he plunged
into the lock. The outer door was wide ; unpausing
he charged through. I remember the way the ship
shuddered from the impact of that mortal blow,
and when the dust cleared, there was General
Admiral Cheroot, firmly, inexorably, unhappily
wedged in the inner door, half in and half out,
coughing and puffing and squirming.
“Hey!” he shouted.
The squad of gendarmes swarmed around the
exposed portion of the general’s body, pushing and
tugging while they chanted a native work song,
cheerfully sweating away and admitting no defeat,
until, inch by inch, they had stowed their chief
inside. He immediately turned around, smiling
and out of breath, and beckoned us to follow.
“Somehow,” said Jones, as we stepped easily
across the sill and into the boat, “I begin to get a
strange feeling, Mr. Bascomb.”
If the vessel’s exterior had given the impression
that she was dying, the interior furnished a more
explicit diagnosis. The insides were worn and
rotten, as if some metallic fever had laid waste to
it. Fragments of clothing, some six-month-old
Venus funny papers, a can of paint, a telephone
directory from Jupiter, and somebody’s tennis
shoes littered the deck. The overhead was cov-
ered with a fine gray coat of dust th*t hung there
in unconscious defiance of gravity, and everything
else about the vessel seemed to disprove most of
the other natural laws.
The ship was a mere hundred and fifty feet long,
PENANCE CRUISE
51
a veritable cigar butt, as Jones had observed, but
her crew numbered no less than a score of men.
Their uniforms, in contrast to the general’s splen-
did circusy affair, looked like they had come in
with a recent tide. One of the crew, who was
asleep in the navigation cranny — it was no more
than that — was enveloped in a long, sleezy night-
shirt, and several others, grinning and chattering,
clung together in a companionway like a cluster of
bats, attired, to suit the unbearable heat of the
blistered interior, in nothing more than under-
wear.
General Cheroot, crying out hearty greetings,
led us forward, moving in the tubular confines of
the companionway like a fat piston in a cylinder.
Just before he reached the bow, he managed to
open a door and disappeared inside. We followed
him in and found ourselves in a spotless, luxurious
room, faced by mirrors that lined every square inch
of the bulkheads. Cheroot struck a heroic pose
before the battery of mirrors and said, “This is
my bunk, gents! Take a burden away from your
feet and sit down.”
We sank down. There was a huge, circular
couch in the center of the room, and wherever
one sat, he was constantly faced by a reflection
that stared back at him ; in our case, by bewildered
reflections.
“Nize, cozy joint, hey?” said the general,
happily.
“Yezz,” said Jones.
All I said was: “What’s that?” Meaning the
sounds I heard of ports being closed, and a sudden
rush of air that indicated locks shut.
“We are off!” cried Cheroot.
He plumped down on the couch before the ship
could roll him off his feet. The deck lurched, and
somewhere, something made of metal buckled and
snapped. A horrible, ear-splitting roar, then an-
other, and I knew by then what Cheroot meant.
I knew it from the heavy pressure against my
chest and the ache in my ears. We had blasted
into space.
As soon as the ship righted itself, Jones gasped,
“General, we can’t undertake a trial run until we’re
sure she’s spaceworthy!”
“But that is a surely,” the general gayly re-
sponded. “I have many times employed her on
excursions. Come, I exhibit the controls.”
There was nothing to do but follow him. We
swung up to the bow where the bridge was, and
there we were greeted by a sight that made our
blood congeal. Two of three braking stays,
twisted and shattered at some past date, had been
repaired with a few unraveling strands of cheap
twine. The gravity disk stood at .0003, a logical
reading for a deep-sea expedition, and the naviga-
tion wheels were performing a rumba.
I took one look and leaped to the amberglass
ports. Far below, and still dropping away, was
the little golden ball that was Exotica. I made
this out only after I had found a clean spot in the
amberglass, which was so filthy and oil-stained that
vision remained something vaguely desirable, if
impossible.
“This is insane!” I chattered at the general.
“We’ve got to go down immediately, before this
damned tub falls apart from exhaustion.”
“So?” said the general, arching a brow. “I think
it is too late, but I will call the captain.”
He leaned back into the companionway and
shouted something, and in a few moments, a nut-
brown little man attired in a long oilskin coat and
thick-shelled goggles appeared. Barefoot, he pat-
tered up to the bridge and listened attentively to
the general. Then, suddenly, the little captain
loosed a torrent of unintelligible Exotican phrases.
“What does he say?” Jones said, impatiently.
General Cheroot cleared his throat. “You want
to know what he say? He say the windows are
too dirty on the bridge, so he like to stay in the
tail and watch the scenery. He likes scenery.”
Jones’ shout drowned out my groan. “What
does he say about landing the ship?”
“I must find this out,” replied the general,
energetically. Again he spoke to the captain.
Again the captain replied with a tirade, fin-
ishing with a flourish and showing his tongue.
The general turned back to us. “You want to know
what he say? He say I have been going with his
sister too long, and his mother say I should marry
her.”
“But what about the ship?” Jones bellowed.
“He don’t talk about the ship.” Cheroot
shrugged, helplessly. “He don’t like her, so he
don’t talk about her.” He gestured with his hands
again and sighed, “Sometimes I decide he is nuts.”
Maybe this sounds funny now, but as Captain
Castle would say, believe me, it wasn’t then. It
was like beating one’s head against a pliable
wall, and the wall kept contracting, closing in. I
felt that I had to remember to keep breathing or
I would stop. And Jones must have felt the same
way. He had quieted down, as if to take firm hold
of the remnants of his sanity, and he looked from
the ball of perfumed meat that was the general to
the apparition that was the captain. Then, with-
out a word, he turned to the controls himself and
began to manipulate them, trying each of the con-
trol buttons in turn.
The ship made no response. Jones faced Cheroot
and said, very quietly, “How does this ship land?”
“Land?” the general repeated. “Oh, to land! I
begin to spot a mistake I have made.” He laughed
good-naturedly at himself. “All the time I think
you just want to go down, not to land. To answer
this question I do not require the captain. The
answer is: we do not land until we depart at our
destination.”
52
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
I said, “you mean ‘arrive’ — not ‘depart,’ don’t
you, sir?’’
“The same difference,” Cheroot nodded. “If we
do not depart, we do not arrive. So let be your
way. We do not land now until we arrive at our
destination.”
“You mean we’re already on our way?” Jones
asked. “You mean this isn’t just a trial run? Not
even a trial run?”
“It is a surely it is a trial run,” said the general,
vigorously. “You are here because you have been
on trial at the court-martial, no? So, you are as-
signed to this voyage! Yes, we are on our way!”
“Where?” said Jones, breathing hard.
“I do not know. The orders are seals.”
“Sealed orders? Whose orders?”
“My orders.”
“And you don’t know what they are?” I said,
incredulously.
“It is a surely I know!” the general cried,
happily. “But once I read some place that a navy
is always going to dangerous places under seals
orders, so I make seals ! And soon, when you have
decide I am a peacock’s dimension, I unseal the
orders for you, just like Captain Castle say.”
“What was that last remark?” said Jones, swal-
lowing. “I thought I heard something about a
peacock. Would you mind repeating that last
statement in reference to unsealing orders?”
“You want to unseal the orders, Ensign Jones?
Yes?”
“General Cheroot, I am dying to unseal the or-
ders. Yes!”
“So you have decided I am the dimension of a
fine peacock?”
“Mr. Bascomb,” said Jones to me, “did you hear
it, too?”
“Keep me out of this,” I said, hoarsely.
Jones decided the only way he could stop his
hands from trembling was to put them into his
pockets. “General,” he said, trying to control his
voice, “you have the dimension of a fine herd of
buffalo. Now will you unseal the orders?”
“Is too bad. Impossible to unseal orders. Im-
possible.”
“Are you kidding?” Jones cried out. “You want
to be a peacock? All right, you’re a peacock!”
The general nodded compassionately. “I am
afraid you do not understand,” he said. “I am
overhear what your Captain Castle is say to Lieu-
tenant Haddock. He say by the time I am ready
to unseal orders — are you listening? — by the
time I am ready for this, you must have decide I
am a fine dimension of a peacock. But since you
have not decide yet, it is not time to unseal orders.”
Jones looked at me, but I broke first. I sobbed
and blubbered a little, and then I saw the wild
gleam of inspiration in Jones’ eyes.
“General” he burst out. “Do you mean dementia
praecox?"
“It is surely! Dimension peacock!”
An interminable moment of silence dragged by.
Presently, Jones said, with fearsome sincerity,
“General, at the peril of being an accomplice to
the most masterly understatement of the last
decade, I agree with Captain Castle. You’re the
finest dementia I ever saw.”
“How nize,” the general murmured. “What that
means, hey?”
“It means that you’re a repellent mass of fetu-
lant putrescence. That means: The Man with the
Soul Like an Angel. And now, the orders.”
“You are too nize,” the general laughed, and his
several bellies rolled like some cadaverous sea
anenome shaking itself. “Your Captain Castle, he
say when the time is come to unseal orders, for me
to give you this letter. He say this letter is make
clear everything.”
Feverishly, Jones grabbed the envelope which
Cheroot produced from under his crimson sash.
There were two folded sheets inside, one of them
the official maroon of the Service. I read them
with Jones, trying to keep the words from spin-
ning with my head.
FROM: Admiral Stone, aboard Aurelia, Exotica Base
HQ.
FROM: Lieutenant-commander Castle; Captain Star
Swallow, EBHQ.
TO : Ensign Richard Bascomb ; Ensign Fletcher Jones.
Proceed aboard flagship of Exotican Navy, gunboat
La Pochata Eggrimmaggratta, to planetoid Forelle, lo-
cated in Ghort planetoid group. Upon arrival, you will
take into custody Captain Littlejohn Place, who is under
indictment for murder and is wanted by the government
of Exotica. You will deliver Captain Place to the Gen-
darmery of Exotica upon your return.
The other piece of paper had two scrawled mes-
sages on it. One, in the handwriting of Captain
Castle, said:
Remember the motto of the Academy: IT CAN BE
DONE.
Yours in romance,
C. C.
P. S. Brackety-ax-co-ax! Haddock!
“Your Captain Castle also gave to me a book
and some mops,” the general was saying. “He say
you will need them.”
But I wasn’t listening to the general. I was
watching Jones. His face was the darkest white
I had ever seen, and I knew why, because I knew
what our orders meant, or thought I did. Possibly,
if I had really understood what was involved, I
would have —
What’s the use of talking? There was nothing I
could have done, and I did nothing. I just fol-
lowed Jones back to the general’s couch and lay
down for a while.
PENANCE CRUISE
53
III.
But I learned, little by little. I compared what
I knew with what Jones told me, and I read the
book that Castle had thoughtfully left — “A Short
History of the Ghort Planetoids.” And from the
“mops,” which turned out to mean maps, and from
the frenzied intelligence which the general im-
parted, I began to understand what our mission
meant.
I had only one doubt. “Captain Littlejohn
Place,” I mused aloud, while Jones read the book.
“Do you suppose there could be two of them?”
“They would have met in a bloody duel and
killed each other,” Jones observed somberly. “No,
there was only one Place. Haddock knew him.
He said he was so tough he shaved with a heat
gun.”
As I knew well enough. I discovered I knew
more than I thought, whenever I could summon
up the courage to think about it. Place’s voyages
had provided more than one thrilling chapter in
the textbooks I had used as a cadet. He had al-
most achieved the status of a legend, blasting a
hundred trails through the System, and then he
had retired to a peaceful life, to a little planetoid
named Forelle, in the distant, forsaken Ghort
group.
Did I say peaceful? What I meant was profita-
ble, though it was quiet enough, I imagine. In
the years while Tyuio was becoming a great trad-
ing center, Place had foreseen what would happen.
The increasing traffic of liners and freighters that
made the long Jupiter-Tyuio hop had naturally
used a large part of their stowage for food and
water. Just about that time, Place, cashing in on
his merited reputation as a daring navigator and
pioneer, was making bales of money escorting
scientific expeditions to the Ghort group, which
had become famous for its indigenous beasts, the
fire monsters. Nosing around, Place chanced on
Forelle, which alone among the entire group of
planetoids possessed a sizable body of fresh water.
He claimed Forelle, probably passing it off as
frontier whimsy, and none of the governments near
the group — the nearest was Exotica, nine days
away, and busy staging refined orgies for its tourist
festivals — contested his acquisition. Wild, treach-
erous land, they assumed, inhabited only by fabu-
lous, fiery mammoths they had seen only in films
or museums — a suitable abode for Littlejohn Place.
No one apparently noticed that where Forelle lay
was almost halfway between Jupiter and Tyuio.
With the result that soon afterward, the entire
Jupiter-Tyuio traffic was stopping at Forelle for
water, and buying provisions from Place at in-
teresting prices. Now the liners and freighters
could save half the stowage they had formerly de-
voted to these necessities, and use the space for
paying freight. Place adjusted prices accordingly.
Well, there was more to it than that, but what
was important to us was the alleged fact that
Captain Place had committed murder. The story
of that murder was as unreasonable as everything
about the voyage had become. General Cheroot,
dining with us in the tiny wardroom next to his
private quarters, elaborated on this story.
“I decide he is nuts,” said the general, devouring
a pastry. “Captain Place is a total nuts. He live
with himself for three years. Maybe he make too
much money. Maybe the quiet life is too much.
Anyway, I hear pretty soon he don’t like nobody
and he kill anyone he don’t like. You know
Captain Place.”
“I don’t get it,” said Jones. “Not that I doubt
his talent for homicide, but he was supposed to be
a nice guy most of the time, and — ”
“The case is close,” the general stated. “If a
hunter want to take the fire mounsters, Captain
Place have no right to stop them, even if he is boss
of Forelle.”
Which brought us again to the enormously in-
teresting dossier of facts concerning the fire mon-
sters, culled from Dr. R. L. Andrews’ book, “Short
History,” a lousy nine hundred fifty-four pages.
The Ghort group, as I said, had first achieved fame
as the home of the^e monsters. Learned scholars
inclined to the theory that the group had once
been a single body, which, as it broke up several
billion years ago, scattered the entire species
among the group. The monsters were fifteen-ton
animals, supposedly capable of breathing fire on
suitable occasions, and described as a cross between
prehistoric dinosaurs and legendary dragons.
In the years following discovery, many expedi-
tions tried to make off with some of these mon-
sters. The results were peculiar. Invariably, after
the monsters had been lured into specially con-
structed vessels, large enough to transport them to
the London Zoo, they died within a few days. More-
over, immediately upon their death, decomposition
set in at such a furious pace that scarcely a carcass
remained by the time it had been brought back.
Nothing had ever succeeded in arresting this queer,
perverse decomposition.
Dr. Andrews, in his factual dragnet, commented
on this in the following plaint: “It was as if a
bewildered Nature, having suffered the living ani-
mal to exist longer than any of its brothers in the
Universe, decided, upon its death, to hurry it to its
original dust as quickly as it could, thus hoping to
hide the cosmic error.”
Well, the reconstructed specimens were worth
enough to send a swarm of hunters after them.
Again the results were startling. No one was able
to kill a fire monster. Possibly a gun of military
caliber could have done the trick, but it would also
have destroyed the specimen. Nothing else worked.
The monster had to be enticed aboard a ship large
54
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
-
enough to house it, and shortly after the ship left
Forelle the monster died in its own way, presuma-
bly of its own volition.
After a decade or so of this practice, the fire
monsters became alarmingly scarce. An inter-
planetary convention, while reaffirming the law
that the animals belonged to the public domain,
enacted a clause forbidding the hunting of any
save adult specimens, offering a lengthy chart of
weights and measurements. The last of the known
adults had been killed about the time Captain Place
had taken Forelle, and the poor monsters, on the
verge of extinction, had presumably drawn fiery
breaths of relief.
This was the curious background of the mission
which now stared us balefully in the puss, and
which understandably baffled Jones a bit.
“Let me just try to get this straight,” said Jones.
“This party of hunters discovered that there were
two adult fire monsters on Forelle. They were
within their legal rights in attempting to take
them, but Captain Place shot their leader dead.
Right?”
“It is a surely.”
“Who was it?” I asked. “Anybody well known
among scientists?”
General Cheroot smiled broadly. “Oh, he was
well known. It was this man Claude Ponteret.”
“ What ?”
“But it is a surely I”
This was a strange development. Ponteret, who
had accumulated a tidy fortune through a variety
of shady enterprises, was hardly the man to have
gone after such game. There was money in it, but
not enough. It was too dangerous a project, espe-
cially with Place around.
“Well,” said Jones, “if it was Ponteret, there’s
probably a question as to whether or not the mon-
sters were adults. Not that it makes much differ-
ence," he added, thoughtfully. “Place had no right
to stop him, no matter what he did. But I still
can’t see Ponteret investing in a special ship and
equipment for the job.”
“He don’t have no ship,” said Cheroot. “He
come in a small ship and I see it have no place
for the mounsters.”
“But how could he possibly have come after the
monsters if he had no room for them?” said Jones.
After some prodding, it turned out that the
general had personally spoken to the survivors of
the hunting party. They claimed that Ponteret
had secured a revolutionary new preservative
which would enable him to bring back intact speci-
mens, worth plenty. But to use the preservative, it
was necessary to kill the monsters quickly, instead
of waiting for them to die of whatever they died
from.
“I suppose,” I asked, “that Ponteret had that
worked out, too? He knew how to kill these
monsters?”
The general nodded as he prepared to mangle a
fresh pastry. “He have special bullets made.
After he kill the mounsters, he stick in the new
presergative. Then he wait a few days and another
ship, a big one, come for the dead mounsters.”
“Hah!” Jones scoffed. “A likely story! Did
you get to see any of these special bullets?”
“Yes, I see one. Captain Place, he grab one of
the hunters’ guns and kill Ponteret with it. The
hunters bring back Ponteret’s body to Exotica and
the doctor is make an . . . an . . . how you say? . . .
autopsy. Well, he take out this bullet which kill
him and I see it.”
Jones directed his puzzled stare at me. I
shrugged.
“Also,” said the general, “I have take along one
hundred of this special bullets with me in this
ship.”
“Really?” cried Jones, delighted. “May we see
them?”
“As soon as I am finish with this cake."
The general authoritatively dispatched his cake
and produced a heavy wooden case, carefully
bound. The bullets were five-inch-long projectiles,
deadly, dull-gleaming blue-steel alloy. Apparently
they had been designed to pierce the armor of the
monsters, but despite this specialized task they
fitted into the breach of ordinary projectile rifles,
PENANCE CRUISE
55
the kind used to shatter amberglass windows, and
of which the general had several.
Jones balanced one of these heavy rifles in his
hands, as if he were weighing it, and his puzzled
grimace returned.
“Odd,” he muttered, “that Place should use one
of Ponteret’s rifles to kill him. Why didn’t he use
his heat gun, with which he is supposed to be a
fiendish marksman? Again, Place supposedly
grabbed the rifle from one of the party, but how
did he get that close to them? Assuming that
Place did grab it, and swung it into firing position
before anyone could stop him, how did he escape
the others? It seems to me that his activities
should have produced more casualties.”
“Bloodthirsty reasoning,” I said, “but sound.”
“What’s more,” Jones added, “in view of the
haphazard way this vessel is managed, doesn’t it
strike you as queer that this blob of flaccid bull-
beef who commands it should have had the fore-
sight to bring along these bullets and rifles?”
Jones had taken to speaking in obscure or poly-
syllabic words when he wanted to keep General
Cheroot out of our conversations, with excellent
results.
“Let’s ask,” I said. “General, why did you bring
these along?”
“Because you will need them if Captain Place
is get mad.”
“But we’ve got our heat guns,” I said, “and
they’re certainly more effective, if it comes to
that.”
“But what you will do with the mounsters?” the
general demanded. “The heat gun she is no good
for the mounsters.”
“What have the confounded mounsters got to
do with this?” said Jones. “We’re going to keep
away from the mounsters.”
“But maybe they will not keep away from you !”
“The fire monsters never bothered anyone first,”
I said.
“Not these mounsters 1” cried the general, burst-
ing into a wild fit of laughter. “Captain Place, he
have the control of these mounsters! They do
what he say!” He wagged a forefinger at us.
“The mounsters is watch the water for him, and
if Place he say to kill, they chase and kill! Why
you think the gendarmery is bother to go after
Place?” the general inquired. “Because he is
murder Ponteret? No, no. That is a sad business,
but it is the business of the fleet, not for us.
“But we go because since Place is kill Ponteret,
he let no one land on Forelle any more. If they
land, he send the mounsters after the ship, so
now, for three weeks, all ships is come to Exotica,
and the beautiful towns is fill with drunken sailors.
We want the ships to go back to Forelle, so we do
not wait for the fleet; we take Captain Place away
quick.” The general smiled a smile of pathos.
“But, my nize officers, remember — he have the ab-
solute control of the mounsters !”
At this point, the captain of the ship, whose
name we had learned was Effluvio, appeared at the
doorway to the general’s quarters, still attired in
his natty oilskin coat. He stared at the general,
suddenly began to babble at a prodigious rate,
sighed, and wandered forlornly away.
“You want to know what he say?” said the gen-
eral, taking it as a matter of course that we did.
“He say he have been chewing a whole plug
tobacco and he swallow it. He don’t feel so good.”
He laughed.
And then, all at once, Jones and I were laughing
with him. We had been completely overwhelmed
by his story of Captain Place’s control over the fire
monsters, not only because if it had been true then
Place could easily have wiped out Claude Ponteret
and his whole company, but because the very
stature of the idea had been too much to view all
at once.
But Captain Effluvio’s appearance had changed
things again, had returned us to the world of in-
sane perspective, where nothing was what it
seemed to be, where we had come to feel most
comfortable. Here we had been talking to Cheroot
as if he were a normal person. Effluvio and his
plug-tobacco tragedy had saved us, reminded us
that we were in a madhouse, that everything we
heard and saw had to be considered on its own
terms — the terms of General Cheroot, who, by
virtue of Captain Castle’s orders, was our superior
officer.
Who was it first made that crack about method
in madness?
IV.
That was our first day in free space, and the only
time we ever had a long conversation with General
Cheroot, though now and then I would hear Jones
addressing the general at considerable length.
Meeting him in a companionway, and forced to
retreat to where the general could pass, Jones
would smile gloomily and say, “Ah, there, you
malodorous fungus, a mephitic plague upon you.”
He could continue indefinitely, fascinating the gen-
eral.
But for the first time since I had known him,
I could see that Fletcher Jones wasn’t the same
man. Something was burning in him, something
that gave him no peace.
It wasn’t just his job, either, though it nearly
drove him wild with grief. He was navigation
officer, and he plotted our course from a hopeless
tangle of outdated charts — two of the larger
charts had to be torn away from the chief en-
gineer, who had been using them to resole his shoes
— only to find, at his next reading, that Captain
Effluvio had let the ship drift completely off
course. Jones would sit down quietly, enter our
new position in the log, and get us back through
56
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
instinct and magic. Or the blasters clogged, and
we had to repair them ourselves. You couldn’t get
the crew. If they weren’t fighting or gambling,
they got together and smoked some vile weed, after
which they would sleep, six in a bed, and be im-
possible to rouse. Or the fuel compartment —
But there’s no sense continuing. Jones took it
all and was ready for more. Then, on the seventh
day, something happened that I thought had finally
broken him down.
Late in the afternoon, far off beyond our vision’s
horizon, our instruments picked up a ship. For an
hour she kept coming closer, and then, briefly, she
flashed before us and was gone. She was a ship
from the fleet, a slender, fiercely beautiful gray
destroyer, undoubtedly executing a scouting as-
signment during the war games. We never got her
name; she was too far off and too soon gone for
that, but she had seen us, and she shot out a single
white rocket in salute.
Jones stood on the bridge and stared at that
salute a long time. He seemed very tired, and
when he looked at me, somehow it seemed to me
that I knew what he was going to say.
“Forget it,” I said. “There’ll be other times.
And I don’t mind being here with you, really I
don’t. The games meant nothing to — ”
“No, I can’t forget it,” said Jones, wearily. “It
isn’t only you, Dick. It’s this whole abominable
mess. When I think of what’s waiting for us on
Forelle, if we ever get there — when I look around
this foul tub — when I think of what we’re in, and
the other fixes I’ve been in, a kind of despair gets
me — ” He hammered his hands together and I
turned away. I couldn’t listen to him talking that
way. “Lord, what a mess,” Jones sighed. “If
only — ”
“If only what?” I said, quietly. “Tell me about
it.”
“If only we had a couple of dames aboard,”
Jones sighed again. “What’s the matter?”
“Swallowed wrong,” I choked.
So Jones sat down and gazed pensively through
the stained amberglass. He was too worn out to
sleep, and he frequently shared my watch, but now,
momentarily, he seemed relaxed at last. Watching
the utterly fatigued smile that occasionally came
to his lips, I wondered in what Elysian fields his
mind was gamboling. As if I didn’t know. Pres-
ently he wandered out, down the companionway.
Suddenly I heard him yelling. I ran aft to the
signal room, and I was frozen by the sight before
me. There, lying on the deck, was the remains of
half the AV communications system, and our AV
operator, who hadn’t reported for an hour, nowhere
in sight!
“Look at this!” Jones yelled. The AV receiver
had started chattering and he pulled out the over-
long scroll. He had received messages in every
code, in six languages including Exotican and
English, and the same message was coming over
now.
ATTENTION: FLAGSHIP, LA POCHATA EG-
GRIMMAGGRATTA, EXOTICAN NAVY: WHY
DONT YOU ANSWER? STANDING BY. EBHQ.
And we couldn’t answer. Someone had taken
the AV transmitter apart, wrecked it completely.
We woke up Captain Effluvio and began a search
of the ship, to no avail. The AV man was gone.
“Wake up the general,” Jones mumbled, stunned
by the disaster.
We didn’t have to wake the general. He was
sitting in his quarters, enveloped in electric-green
pajamas, spraying himself with perfume, and with
him was our AV man — and our AV man was work-
ing over the motor he had taken from our trans-
mitter. He had attached it to four crude blades
and fastened the whole contraption to the overhead
in the room.
“Why you make a fuss?” the general smiled at
us. What with the color scheme and the over-
powering odor, he was like some hideous flower.
“This nize fellow is take out the motor and make
me a fan. Is too hot in this place.”
“A fan! A fan!" Jones shouted, beside himself.
“This fermented squash disembowels our trans-
mitter to make himself a fan!”
The general seemed undismayed. He reached
for a book from one of the shelves and opened it.
“But why you need it?” he murmured, absently.
“We know where we have to go, what we have to
do. If something important is happen, they tell
us. We say nothing. You know the remark:
Keep Quiet Is Gold?” And he pored through the
volume.
“Spare me the epigrams, buffoon!” Jones roared.
“We want that — •”
“Oh, mamma,” I said, and one of my hands came
up — spontaneous levitation, as I recall it — and
pointed to the book the general held.
“It is a surely,” Cheroot nodded. “I have here
a dictionary.”
The pages turned gently as he spoke. “For a
long time I wait to have you in the same place
with this dictionary. Most times I am forget the
words too quick . . . ah — squash! And here, buff —
How many foofs in buffoon? Well, look what I
find here! You remember — buffalo? Very inter-
esting — ”
He closed the book and chuckled. “Is so nize
when people is understand each other, hey?” He
regarded us warmly, his eyes sparkling with un-
abashed fondness for us. In the gloomy silence
that followed, Jones leaned back against the door
and ran his fingers through his hair with a cer-
tain desperate calmness. “Well,” said Cheroot,
presently, “why you don’t say something?”
PENANCE CRUISE
57
“Got nothing to say,” said Jones. “Not while
you have that dictionary.”
“But I see you do not understand me,” said the
general, smiling. “You think I am mad at you?”
He tossed the dictionary across the room to Jones.
“Here, for you. For me this is most educational.
We forget the whole thing! What has happen
is water in the britches!”
Frankly, the events of the past few moments
had affected me to the point where I had personal
reasons for admiring this image, as well as the
general’s strange forbearance. But not Jones. Not
Ensign Fletcher Jones, the melancholy scourge
of the spaceways. He stood there in a funk, star-
ing a little wild-eyed at Cheroot. Finally he
spoke.
“You going to give us that motor?” said the
scourge.
“No,” said the general, casually. “I am the boss
of La Pochata. I will keep the fan. Is too hot in
this place. Good night.”
Later, sitting in this signal room with Jones,
listening to the receiver chatter away, I said, “Why
didn’t you mention the handy information con-
tained in Article 12 of the Navigation Code?”
“What about Article 12?”
“Nothing, except that it says this: ‘Vessels in
transit, unable either to receive or transmit via
Audi Visor, shall immediately return to their port
of origin, unless they have already traversed more
than half the distance to such ports where repairs
may be made, or unless adequate repairs are possi-
ble within twelve hours en route — ’ ”
“So what?” said Jones. “We could make ade-
quate repairs in an hour if the general returned
the motor, couldn’t we?”
“But you know damn well he won’t return it!”
“That hardly alters matters much. If our su-
perior officer wants to keep repairs from being
made, that’s his business. This is one time I’ve
got the orders right by the — Anyway, we’re go-
ing to stick to the exact letter of the orders.
We’ll go on to Forelle.”
“Are you kidding? Do you want to keep going?”
He looked at me with mocking eyes. “It is a
surely,” he said.
“But why?”
Jones lit a cigarette and threw me the pack.
“I’ll tell you why,” he said, taking a deep drag.
“Because they sent us to bring back Captain Little-
john Place. Because no one thought it important
enough to check the cockeyed story behind it.
Because they stuck us into this suicidal tub, with
no crew and no instruments and no sane officers.
Because when I try to sleep I remember Captain
Castle’s remarks about the court-martial’s gener-
osity, and I hear everyone of those Gold Stripes
laughing — That’s why, come hell or high water,
we’re going on to Forelle to get Captain Place and
bring him back!”
V.
We raised Forelle three days later.
Early in the morning we had come upon the
outlying bodies of the Ghort group. There were
more than a hundred of the little planetoids, lying
in the sky like bright islands. We skimmed over
them slowly, checking their topography, and by
afternoon we found Forelle.
Forelle was an imperfect globe, with a diameter
of no more than forty miles. Its hilly, uneven
ground was covered with brilliant green forests
and lush vegetation, and facing the sun was its
lake, a clear white diamond set in emeralds. There
had been no sign of life anywhere in the group
and there was none here, but not far from the
lake was a sandy stretch of earth marked by the
deep characteristic gashes of blasting ships, pre-
sumably the spot where ships had landed to take
on water.
Jones was standing between me and Effluvio,
gauging our approach. He hadn’t had more than
two hours’ sleep on each of the last three days,
bringing the ship through dangerous short routes
and uncharted areas, handling her fatigued hulk
with the consummate skill and finesse of a swords-
man, now parrying the rush of a liner, now ripost-
ing a clear area. But with Forelle below, he shook
off weariness.
“Coming in,” said Jones. “All hands to —
Sorry, I forgot where I was. See if you can get
the crew to hang on to safety belts.”
“They’re asleep,” I said. “I tied them to their
beds.”
The landing was going to be quite a business,
not only because the available space was fairly
small, and our ship its usual sluggish self, but
Effluvio alone seemed to know how to manipulate
the control board. Wrapped in his oilskins, he
peered through his goggles at Jones and com-
mented on each signal with a moan. He touched
the control buttons gingerly, as if he were afraid
they might explode. It was a thought worth con-
juring with.
The general chose this moment to arrive.
“Hey!” he cried, enthusiastically. “Why no one
is tell me? I, the general of the boat, is land the
boat myself!”
“Back in your cage,” said Jones, tersely. “Ef-
fluvio, will take her — ”
“But I am the general!”
Jones turned his attention to the amberglass in
time to wave Effluvio into a frantic climb. The
blasters spluttered and a row of treetops came up
and smashed against our bow. A mile ahead our
landing space loomed.
The general barked an order to Effluvio, and
the captain immediately removed his goggles and
abandoned the board.
“Hold those controls!” Jones shouted.
58
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“I am the general!” Cheroot shouted back, and
before we could attempt to stop him, he was at
the board. Then, like a steamroller smoothing out
a gravel road, he rolled his splendid circumference
across the control board, pressing every button!
The ship roared in anguish, gave up the struggle
and slid neatly to earth. It landed not fifty feet
from where Jones had been aiming.
“Is nothing,” the general chortled. “I am the
general. I am all the time land La Pochata this
way.”
It was a considerably older Jones who mur-
mured, “Sure,” in a voice of demented misery.
We went aft, armed ourselves with heat guns,
opened the air lock and stepped out on Forelle.
It was lovely, lovely to be alive and to be there.
Luxuriant grass, three feet high, myriads of
strange, delicately perfumed flowers, birds that had
evidently been imported from many places, a soft,
cool breeze; I took a grateful breath and I could
almost feel the cobwebs in my head blowing away.
The earth was as soft as a bed, I thought, and so
thinking, I looked carefully at Jones. At an ap-
preciably younger Jones, I might add. His eyes
were like embers. He caught me observing him
and he sighed.
“So?” he said. “Let me dream my beautiful,
impossible dreams — ”
“Indeed,” I grunted, turning to the commotion
from the ship. “See what you can do with this
impossible dream — the general wants to get out of
the ship.”
The general was standing before the lock, the
lock that was some two feet too small for him
to pass through, and he was hurling orders at the
drowsy crew.
“How will he do it?” I mused aloud. “He needed
a long run to get wedged in, and a platoon of sol-
diers to push the rest of him through. Still, he —
What’s that sound?”
There was a hissing noise coming from the ship.
The general had pressed himself against the lock,
filling it completely, making the entrance per-
fectly air-tight. He kept pressing closer as the
hissing increased, his face red with exertion, look-
ing like a wad of gummy substance that someone
had pushed into a leak.
“I know what they’re doing!” Jones cried, his
fascinated gaze on the general. “They’ve closed
the lock behind him — and they’re pumping air
into it!”
“I don’t get it.”
But I did within ten seconds, because suddenly
there was a loud, popping explosion and General
Cheroot flew out of the ship! They had fired him
out of the lock with compressed air! He flew for
some twenty feet, arms flailing the air, head tucked
away in such fashion that he seemed to be a mar-
velous winged tortoise, landed on his shoulders,
and continued rolling until he came to the begin-
ning of a hillock. Even before he had stopped
rolling, members of the crew jumped out of the
ship to follow their general. Each of them was
armed with a whiskbroom. When they reached
Cheroot, he was standing impatiently, wheezing
and waiting to be brushed clean. The entire opera-
tion took about a minute.
“He got out,” I said.
“A shrewd observation,” said Jones, crawling
away.
“Where we going?”
“Look around a bit — observation tour, sort of.”
“What about the fire monsters, in case — ”
“I prefer ’em to this.”
So I sneaked after him into the tall grass while
the whiskbroom brigade was still busy with the
general. We climbed the hill and looked around.
The lake lay to our left, while on our right rose
a towering line of trees. The rolling country
stretched ahead, mounting gradually to a high
stone peak. Halfway up the sides of this miniature
mountain stood a long, low rambling structure of
spurious Mexican architecture, formidably pro-
tected on three sides by huge stone outcroppings.
The fourth side lay open, with a steep, winding
path leading up from the far shore of the lake.
When I had finished surveying the scene
through binoculars, Jones summed it up thus;
“We can’t get to Place’s house except by circling
the lake and taking that path up. If we start
walking toward the house, we’ll be exposed all the
way. On the other hand, we’re in uniform, and I
don’t think Place would try anything unless we
did — so I’m for a try at talking to him. You with
me?”
“I’m behind you,” I said. “Lead on.”
We had gone about half a mile, refusing to be
disarmed by the apparent serenity of the country,
when the silence was torn apart by a high-pitched,
whistling noise.
Jones and I hit the ground together. We knew
what that noise was — the sound of a heat gun!
We lay rigid a moment, then Jones took his
binoculars and swept the near horizon. He stopped
when he faced the house, another half mile away,
and passed me the glasses.
Standing on the veranda of the house, one leg
swung up on an ornamented rail, was a tall figure
clothed in green. The green was a suit of fighting
armor, heat-proof, bulky, clumsy-looking, anjJ
damned effective. On his head, the green-clad
figure wore a dull, tubular helmet. But it was
what the figure held across his knees that inter-
ested me most. It was a slender, murderous heat-
ray rifle, probably the Webley Express rifle,
though I couldn’t be sure. I focused the glasses
a little better — in time to see the rifle coming up !
I gasped a warning to Jones and ducked my
PENANCE CRUISE
59
head, and the next instant the high whine of the
gun came over and the ground around us began
to leap up in tiny spurts. I knew then that we
were positively dead pigeons, but coincident with
that first frozen instant of alarm, I saw that Place
hadn’t tried to hit us. He had fired his rifle all
around us, inclosing us with a circle of scorched
earth — as gaudy a display of shooting as I had ever
seen.
“Very gaudy,” I said, exhaling.
“Very funny,” Jones muttered.
We waited a few minutes, then stood up. Im-
mediately the rifle sang out again, kicking up a
spray of gray dust some ten yards to our right.
We didn’t know it then, of course, because we had
dived back to the ground, but after a while, with
the rifle regularly hitting the same spot, we looked
up and saw it.
“You think it’s a signal of some kind?” I said.
Jones nodded and started edging toward the
spot, and the shooting stopped ; it had been a signal
after all. There on a flat rock, weighted by a
smaller stone, lay a white sheet of paper. The
edges of the flat rock had been peppered away
into that fine dust we had seen.
On the paper was a single, flowing line:
Forelle is private property. Get off.
L. P.
“Short and sweet,” said Jones, scowling. “Got
a — Never mind, I’ve got one.” He pulled a small,
stubby pencil out of a pocket, and from his large
breast pocket he took out a folded maroon sheet.
It was our orders from the admiral and Captain
Castle, instructing us to take Place into custody
and bring him to Exotica.
Jones wetted the pencil, and in a bold script,
wrote across the face of the maroon sheet:
Leaving within twenty-four hours. You’re invited.
Fletcher Jones, USICS.
He held the pencil out to me, and I signed my
name under his, misspelling it, for some reason.
“That’ll show him,” I said, hoping what I had on
my face was a reckless grin. “Meanwhile, let’s go
back. My stomach feels kind of empty and I want
to find out if I’m hungry.”
“There’s nothing to be frightened about,” said
Jones. “I hope — ”
“You take care of your knees and I’ll take care
of mine,” I said.
“He can’t stand watch forever, you know,” said
Jones.
“What about the fire monsters?”
“What about them? You don’t see them, do
you?”
“I can hardly see you,” I said. “I got a mist over
both eyes.”
Jones favored me with a reproachful glance and
put the maroon sheet, together with Place’s note,
back under the stone. “We’ve got to plan a course
of action,” he said, thoughtfully.
“Sure thing,” I said. “What are we hanging
around here for?”
We looked back at the house again for a moment,
but Place was gone.
Twilight caught us halfway back, and by the
time we had reached the ship, it was quite dark.
In this strange hush of sudden evening, we heard
only those certain sounds to which eleven days
with the crew had accustomed us — their sonorous
snoring. They were all huddled together, fast
asleep around an open, blazing fire in the clearing.
We had been gone less than two hours, but,
somehow, in that time, they had managed to stage
a barbecue. Close by the fire lay a pile of roast
bones, sizable monument to their bacchanal. In
the center, his hands clutching a jug of wine, lay
our guide and mentor, the estimable General
Qheroot, snoring and belching like a captive vol-
cano.
“Where do you suppose they got this kind of
food?” said Jones, almost plaintively. “These
bones are enormous.”
“Maybe they ate one of the crew,” I ventured.
“And don’t look at me that way. You said your-
self you thought they drank the fuel.”
“You know,” said Jones, “as cockeyed as we
think this whole business is, it’s even more cock-
eyed than that — ”
He was still pondering when he came out of
the ship again, with some food and stale water.
He munched the suetty meat he pried out of a
can and stared into the fire, deeply troubled.
“I dunno,” he muttered. “I can’t figure this
voyage out. Basically, this is a reasonable world.
Things just don’t happen the way — Anyway, not
the kind of things we’ve seen — cockeyed, all right,
but before it’s finished, I’m going to find some an-
swers if I have to — ” His head was nodding now,
his eyes closing. “ — even more cockeyed than
that — ” he said, and then he was asleep.
I finished eating and covered him with a blanket
that I yanked out from under the crew. The Forel-
lean night would last a brief six hours. Jones was
worn out, more than he knew, and I would stand
watch until morning. I didn’t know how safe it
was, sleeping in the open this way, but I felt that
if there had been any danger, Jones wouldn’t have
fallen asleep. That was the way I’d gotten to feel
about Jones.
Anyway, I got another blanket away from the
crew, wrapped myself in it, and sat close to the
fire. After a while, I heard Jones snoring along
with the others, a talented performer in the sym-
phonic orchestra that surrounded me.
It seemed as if long tongues of fire had de-
tached themselves and floated away to the edge of
60
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
the clearing. The curling streamers of light ap-
peared in midair, to hang an instant and wither
away, and suddenly lashing out again in fierce new
life, feeding on the air alone.
Then Captain Place came walking stealthily into
the clearing. The whips of fire thirty feet over
his head came from the nostrils of two tremendous
animals whose bulk loomed vaguely in the uneven
shadows, whose eyes were sparkling red-hot globes
that seemed fixed on the tall, armor-clad figure who
had stood between them, and who now drew closer
to me. Fire flashed fitfully in the air, and fire
gleamed dully on the green armor as Place care-
fully came forward. In one hand he carried his
rifle, swinging it easily.
He stopped not ten feet from me, surveying the
sleepers. He must have thought I was asleep, too,
from the relaxed way I was lying. Once, as his
searching eyes swept over those before him, I felt
our glances had met. I could almost see through
his clouded helmet, and, somehow, I knew that his
eyes were cold and hard, though, of course, it was
too dark and his helmet was frosted too deeply for
me to see much.
His free hand dipped into the gauntlet of the
rifle hand and came out with a crumpled ball of
paper. He walked past me, and though I closed
my eyes, I knew he was looking at me. When I
looked again, he was standing over Jones. His
rifle was at ready, set in the crook of his elbow.
For an interminably long minute he just stood
there, looking down at Jones. Then he bent over
and dropped the ball of paper on Jones’ chest,
inside the blanket.
Before he left, he walked to where our ship lay.
After a brief examination, he turned, crossed the
clearing again, and disappeared into the darkness
between the two fire monsters.
For several moments longer, I continued to lie
quietly. The earth under me trembled ever so
slightly; the thin orange flames receded from the
clearance. Then, as I started crawling toward
him, suddenly Jones sprang to his feet. Motioning
me to silence with a finger on his lips, he ran into
the ship. I picked up the crumpled ball of paper
that had fallen from his blanket and waited. Jones
came out with two heat-ray rifles and thrust one
at me. He jerked his head in the direction Place
had taken and we started to follow.
We went on for a quarter of an hour in silence,
and then we were no more than a hundred and fifty
yards behind Place. Or, I should say, behind one
of the fire monsters, for, unbelievable as it seemed
to us, Place and the fire monsters were walking in
single file — first, one of the monsters, then Place,
then the other monster. And even if Jones had
wanted to take a close-range shot at Place — and I
would have staked anything that he had no such
idea — it was impossible. Somehow, the nonsense
that Cheroot had given us about Place and his
control of the monsters was true. The huge ani-
mals kept a docile pace with him, shielding him
from any chance of surprise attack.
They stopped when they came to the nearest
shore of the lake. The faint haze of a moon below
the horizon, which had covered the landscape with
a blush diffused light, grew brighter now; the
first of Forelle’s ten moons was coming up. We
lay on the ground and saw Place continue on
around the lake, accompanied by one of the mon-
sters. The other stayed behind, and presently it
began to patrol the lake shore, moving ponderously
along for a few hundred yards, then swinging
about and walking the other shore.
The second moon came up, the third, very
swiftly, and still we lay there. After a long while,
the house on the mountainside came to life. Lights
flared in three of its windows, then two of them
went off, and not longer afterward the house was
dark again.
As if it had been a signal, the beast near us left
off its crescent-shaped patrol and continued along
the lake to the far shore, where the pathway lead-
ing to Place’s house began. The second monster,
waiting there, relinquished its post to start cir-
cling the lake in turn.
Jones turned to me with haggard eyes. “I
wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. He’s
tamed them sufficiently to have them — ”
He broke off as the beast slowly approached.
There was light enough to see it fairly clearly
now. Serpentine head swayed slowly from side
to side as it searched its environs. The light threw
the spines along its back into jagged relief, and
its great, horny scales shone like polished steel.
As it lumbered past us, its tail threw up a furrow
in the sand.
When we had started back, Jones asked, “Were
you awake all the time he was in the clearing?
What do you suppose he came for?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I looked up and there
he was, and those damned things with him. Wait
a minute — he dropped this paper into your blanket
while he was looking at you 1”
“Looking at me? When was this?”
“He took a look at me, too, but he went by and
took a really long look at you. I had my hand on
my pistol all the while, but he could have finished
you for all the good I was. You didn’t see him?”
“I must have wakened after that. First I knew
he was standing beside the ship. Why didn’t he
kill all of us then and there?” He smoothed out
the crumpled ball and held it up. It was a sheet
like the first one we had found, and the hand-
writing was the same. Jones read:
Whatever your game is — you have until tomorrow
night to get off or get buried.
L. P.
PENANCE CRUISE
61
“Getting to be quite a correspondence,” said
Jones, thoughtfully.
“What does he mean by that word ‘game’?”
“I don’t think he believes we’re . . . ah . . . officers
of the law,” said Jones, slowly. “Certainly he’s
acting as if he didn’t know what it was all about.
Maybe that’s why he gave La Pochata the once-
over. One look at those rusty plates and he knew
she wasn’t from the USICS — ”
“Then why is he acting the way he is acting?”
“Huh?” said Jones, lost in thought. “Yeah,
that’s it — but it still doesn’t add up. Those mon-
sters of his were adults, all the same. We’ll have
to get at him in spite of those monsters — huh?
You say something?”
“You’re the one who said something — and I mean
something ! How are we going to get around those
monsters?”
“Hm-m-m,” said Jones, staggering a little from
fatigue. “Huh?”
We got back to the ship without further talk-
ing. The general and his crew hadn’t stirred.
Jones sat down near the embers of the fire, reading
Place’s note again, as if he were fascinated by it.
He sat there, hm-m-ming to himself and frown-
ing, and fighting to stay awake. And when at last
he fell asleep, he mumbled and tossed, the frown
still etched on his forehead, the note still in his
hand.
I watched the moons come up.
VI.
J
Early next morning, Jones and I stood on a hill
and saw the fire monsters, still standing guard at
the lake. We could see their immobile reflections
in the water, gray against gray, and the dawn
behind them. And because I had no alternative
suggestions, I said nothing after Jones had finished
outlining what I considered an implausible plan,
and went into the ship with him.
“Let’s get it done before the general gets up,”
said Jones. “I hate to think what he’ll say.” So
we began taking apart the mirrors that formed the
bulkheads of the general’s quarters. There were
fifteen of them, measuring about three by six feet.
We stacked them up in the air lock and went back
to dress.
“You know,” I said, climbing into the metallic
tunic, “I’ve been thinking it’s funny that all the
fighting equipment aboard seems to come in pairs,
no more and no less. Two heat-ray rifles, two
pistols and two suits of armor. Suppose we
wanted someone — ”
“My looking glasses ! Who has take out my nize
looking glasses?” cried the general, storming into
the ship. We ducked down lower in the signal
room and continued putting on our armor, and
soon enough, Cheroot found us there. “Ah-hah!
So you revenge for my fan with the looking
glasses!” he shouted in anger.
“Knock off, general,” said Jones, picking up his
helmet. “Did you take a look at those fire mon-
sters of yours standing at the lake? How do you
expect us to get Place with them around?”
“What have the looking glasses to do — ” He
broke off abruptly and swallowed. “Mounsters?”
he gasped. “You have seen the mounsters?” His
head nodded automatically with Jones, and he
wheeled around and pushed his way out of the
ship, crying, “Mounsters by the lake!”
We adjusted out gauntlets, strapped the heat-
ray rifles on, and followed him. The entire crew
was standing on the hill with him, all of them
gazing apprehensively into the distance. Hearing
the clatter of the mirrors as we began to pick
them up, the general turned around and waddled
down the hill to us, the crew streaming after him.
“Where you are taking my looking glasses?” he
shouted. “Put down! We leave this place after
breakfast!”
“But what about Place?” I said, bewildered.
“Don’t you want to bring him back?”
“Never mind Place! Is a job for the Fleet with
the mounsters?”
“But you knew the monsters were here!” I ex-
claimed.
“Is . one thing to know! Is another thing to
see!”
“Yeah,” said Jones, dryly. “You weren’t by any
chance figuring that the monsters would scare us,
too, were you? Well, they haven’t. We’ve got a
plan to get them out of the way.”
“A plan?” said the general, subdued a little.
“What plan?”
We explained the plan to him. We were going
to take the mirrors into the forest, advancing
parallel to the lake. We would then set up the
mirrors in a semicircle on the wood’s edge, so that
it reflected the lake. Then, through some ruse
which we would presently figure out, we would
maneuver the monsters close enough to the mirrors
to confuse them. If everything went according
to plan, the monsters would remain on guard over
the mirrored lake —
“Not with my looking glasses!” cried the gen-
eral.
“ — and that’ll give us enough leeway to try
sneaking up the mountain path to Place’s house,”
Jones finished.
“Oh,” said the general, and was silent. He puck-
ered his face up and added, “You are going to
fight Place with the guns?”
“He’s good,” said Jones, “but we have two guns
to his one.”
“Hm-m-m,” said the general softly. “Is a nize
plan.” ^
“I don’t agree with you, general,” I began. “For
one thing, if it fails, you won’t have any navigation
officer to get you home.”
62
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“The dangers of the military life," Cheroot
shrugged. “I am prepare to make the sacrifice.
You will have breakfast with me?”
We sat around the fire and had breakfast with
him. The bones of the previous night’s feast had
disappeared, and we made no comment. During
the meal I had an inspiration. I remembered the
hundred-odd special steel bullets that the general
had brought with him, and it occurred to me that
they might have special nuisance value, if nothing
else, in maneuvering the monsters about. The
general, politely agreeing with us, brought the
bullets to us.
He even got the crew to help us transport the
mirrors, and after breakfast our caravan started
through the forest. Peering now and then through
the outermost fringe of trees, we caught glimpses
of the monsters. Occasionally one of them made
a tour of the lake, but for the most part they
grazed. The general marveled at the jets of flame
that issued from their mouths now and again,
flame that traveled twenty feet.
“What do they eat?” he asked. “Somebody
knows?”
“Garlic,” said Jones. “According to Dr. Lao’s
researches on the chimera, these fire monsters have
no provision for disposing of waste matter, so they
burn it up instead.”
Finally we reached a position which I judged
was just beyond the range of a heat-ray rifle. The
crew backed away while Jones and I adjusted our
helmets, leaving only the mouthpiece open. Then,
completely clad in armor, we came out of the
woods and stood up the first mirror, backing it
with forked boughs. We set the angle and went
in for the next mirror, and when we came out,
Captain Place was standing on the veranda of his
house.
I looked at him through binoculars, and before
I got them focused, Jones snatched them away.
“He’s in armor, dammit,” said Jones.
“What’d you expect?” I said. “Pajamas?”
“He’s looking at us through binoculars, too,”
said Jones.
I waited a few minutes, then I said, “What is
this — a mutual-admiration society? Let’s get busy
before he sends his friends over to break this up.”
“If he does,” said Jones, “duck behind the
mirrors.”
We got all the mirrors up within the next hour,
then we went back into the woods and waited.
Place hadn’t made many moves. Once or twice
he went into his house, only to return and continue
watching us. And the monsters continued grazing
like lambs.
Another hour went by, and I began sweating in
the armor. The monsters had come fairly close more
than once, but not close enough. We monkeyed
with the angles of the mirrors and it didn’t help.
“Maybe these monsters know they’re mirrors,” I
ventured, mopping my brow.
“They know something,” said Jones sourly, “and
my guess is that Place is going to wait until our
time is up and then — wham!"
“Our time is up?” the general caught up Jones’
words.
“He left us a note last night while you were
asleep,” said Jones grinning at Cheroot. “Said he’d
kill the lot of us if we didn’t clear out by tonight.
But we’re not going to wait — ”
“No!” the general shouted, getting to his feet.
“We are not going to wait! The plan is stink!
We leave right now! Take back my looking
glasses !” He shouted orders at the crew in Exoti-
can, and they started hopping around, getting
ready to rush out for the mirrors.
Jones got up slowly, one hand on his rifle, and
if they didn’t understand his words, the gesture
was enough. “I’ll fry the first one who touches
those mirrors,” he said, “and I’m the guy to do it.”
“You read that some place,” I muttered, under
my breath.
Jones covered up his grin with his helmet.
“Come on,” he said to me. “We can’t just sit here
all day. Let’s try the bullets.”
We started for the monsters and stopped when
we were five hundred yards away, well within
range of a heat-ray rifle. We had covered our
mouthpieces, and communicating by signal, we got
down on one knee and replaced our heat capsules
with the steel bullets.
I fired first. The sound of that bullet was some-
thing close to an admiral’s salute. The gun kicked
back and sent me sprawling, and just as I was
getting up, Jones let his gun go and the sound
waves, ricocheting off the mountain, knocked me
flat again. There was enough explosive in each
shell to parcel out and make a revolution.
I peered through my helmet into Jones’ and saw,
from what I could make out of his expression, that
he had come to respect the bullets. But only in
this limited capacity, because they hadn’t even
been noticed by the monsters ! One of them shook
its head, looked around until it saw us, let out a
sheet of flame, and continued eating vegetables.
And there was Place again, sitting on the rail-
ing of his house, rifle across his knees, as unper-
turbed as his beasts.
Jones waved me forward, and we got up and
went in another hundred yards. Maybe the close
range would do it. We braced ourselves and let
the guns go again. This time, before I fell, I saw a
cloud of dust rise from one of the monster’s backs,
and my guess was that we had disturbed a colony
of ants that had made a home there. Both the
monsters looked up this time and went back to
their eating with a single-mindedness that was
reminiscent of the general.
PENANCE CRUISE
63
Again Jones waved an arm for me to advance.
I shook my head, not to disagree, but because
sound waves had sneaked into my helmet and my
head damned well needed shaking, so Jones went
on alone and I had to run to catch up. But he
didn’t know I was so close behind him; he dropped
quickly and fired from two hundred yards before
I could get set. Anticipating the blast, I must
have gripped the trigger too tightly. My gun
went off ten yards behind Jones — and the next
thing I knew, Jones had torn off his helmet and
he was running full tilt to the rear.
I took one look and I followed. The monsters
were after us! We had finally aroused their in-
terest, but too suddenly and too well.
Ahead of us the crew and General Cheroot came
tearing wildly out of the woods, the safest place
for miles around, plunging into the tall grass in
their panic. I was still a little deaf from the
thunder of the guns, but I heard enough to spur
me on. Jones was shouting for them to return
and they were screaming Exotican prayers, and
I think I was asking Jones to wait for me. And
then, all at once, over this horrendous noise, over
the roaring of the monsters, a shrill whistle tore the
air, and, abruptly, the ground stopped shaking.
Place had called off the monsters!
There was no other explanation; there could
have been none other. We realized that later, how-
ever. At the moment, initial velocity alone threat-
ened to keep us running for days. I overtook
Jones, and together we caught up to the general,
who was being pushed along by the crew. And
when we turned to see where the monsters were,
we saw that they had resumed eating.
At this point the general collapsed, and I nearly
did the same thing when I took a look at the
helmet Jones held up for me. My bullet had left
a deep dent near the top of his helmet. Jones
kept looking from me to the helmet, then finally
he sat down in the midst of that group of panting,
fear-stricken Exoticans and blew out his breath.
“What a bullet!” he breathed. “If you’d been
in any closer — ” He jumped up and grabbed me
by the arm. “I got it !” he said. “I got it ! Listen.
These bullets are strong enough to tear through
those monsters’ hides if we get close enough! If
they can do that to one of these helmets, they’ll
go through the monsters !”
“Without me!” I yelled. “If you think — \
“Shut up and listen! We’ll gather up some of
these plants and grass the monsters eat, and we’ll
stuff the salad full of these bullets. The monsters
eat the bullets — and what happens?”
“I won’t know. I’ll be miles from here.”
“The flames!” cried Jones triumphantly. “The
flames will explode the bullets right inside them !
Is that close enough?”
I tried to keep protesting, but he had me. It
was a brilliant idea, one of a long line of Jones’
brilliants, with a tragic trail behind most of them.
“No,” I said feebly.
“You mean you’ll let these monsters win out
over us?”
“Who says they won? We’re all alive yet. It’s
a draw.”
The general groaned and opened his eyes, and
Effluvio stopped his wailing. Jones looked down
at the general, then he said to me, “He’ll be here
for a while yet. Let’s go finish this off.”
So back we went to finish the monsters. It took
us fifteen minutes to cover the ground we had
forsaken in three and a half. Captain Place had
come down part of the way along the mountain,
and he was sitting on a boulder, scrutinizing us
through his glasses. There was no sign of his
rifle, and I commented on it to Jones.
“I don’t know,” Jones said, not bothering to
close the mouthpiece. “He could have blown my
head off when I took off my helmet. One thing is
certain — either he’s got other plans, or the stories
about him never killing in cold blood are true.
Or—”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know,” said Jones, with an oddly be-
mused quality in his voice. “Let’s start making
salads. Bunch them up, like this.”
We bunched up a dozen salads and started creep-
ing closer to the monsters again. I closed my
64
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
mouthpiece to keep my chattering teeth from
startling the animals, but I doubt if it made any
difference. The monsters must have seen us after
a while— we were within a hundred yards of them
— but they seemed placid enough. Then we threw
out our bunches of food and started running back.
They had seen the food.
First one monster, then the other, approached
the bulky tangles of grass. Their little heads
swooped down and we could see the visible effort
they made to swallow. They went on to the next
bunch.
Then it happened. One monster jerked his
head up suddenly and yawned, and, kicking up
his forelegs, choked on his own flames. In a split
instant several muffled roars rolled out together,
and bullets started shooting out in all directions!
They plowed up the earth, they whistled around
our heads, and two bullets cracked against my
chest armor with enough force to throw me back
several steps. It was a pitiful head start, but I
needed it.
The monsters weren’t dying at all. They erupted
for another minute, but when they could keep
their heads in position, the position pointed
directly at us. One of them took a tentative step
toward us, stopped while a few more bullets shot
out, and started forward again.
Well, it’s no secret, I guess. We ran. We’d
run before, but this time we ran. We heard that
shrill whistle behind us again, and it might have
been Captain Place, and it might have been the air
billowing in our wake, but if it was Captain Place,
the monsters weren’t paying any attention to him.
They were rather single-minded, as I said before.
The lucky part of it, or so I assumed at the time,
was that Cheroot and the crew hadn’t waited.
They had gone back to the ship, and even then we
would have reached the clearing before them, but
they heard us coming. Good Peter himself must
have heard us coming!
The general uttered one piercing wail and
plunged for the air lock. He went in more than
halfway, but no dam ever stopped a flood more
effectively. Ineffective waves of Exoticans beat
against him, screaming and pounding. And then
Jones and I, never pausing, arrived like elemental
furies, sweeping through the crew, hitting the
general in one mighty surge that sent him tumbling
in, the rest of the crew sucked in after us like
spray that settles on the sheen of a breaker.
And after us the monsters arrived — before we
had had time to close the locks fully. They
stamped and pounded their mighty legs on the
hinges, beating against the doors, smashing their
flanks on the ancient sides of La Pochata. They
hit the bow and the stern, they rocked the ship
again and again, roaring and flaming, and they
cracked the amberglass so many times it seemed
a miracle that it held — and it might not have held
much longer if Place hadn’t come.
Because when the destruction ended, there was
Captain Place, standing on the edge of the clear-
ing, whistling to his monsters. And now, their
rage ebbing, the monsters turned and walked
meekly to him, and presently the trio was gone.
We came out of the ship then and looked at her.
We had only to look at the air lock to know that
she could never blast off again. The rest of her
was battered, but, having had severe trials in her
day, she would have been all right — but not with
that air lock. The monsters had broken the hinges
and pounded the lock out of shape. With our air
constantly escaping into space, we would face slow
death soon afterward.
There was nothing to do now. We had failed.
We would have to take down the general’s fan —
no objections would stop us now — and repairing
the transmitter, send out a call for help. And
what Place would do, with us remaining past his
deadline, was something to be faced later on.
Meanwhile, the transmitter.
But when we went back in we couldn’t find the
general! We knew he was in the ship, but we
couldn’t find him! We searched his quarters —
and there we saw that our transmitter — and his fan
— were gone.
Jones’ face went hard. He began a systematic
search of the ship again, opening every door,
peering into every closet. When he opened one
of the closets in the crew’s quarters, we found the
general. And we found something else.
It wasn’t an easy thing, seeing what we saw.
Not after those first moments of confusion, after
we had figured it out.
Half of the crew’s quarters, more than half, was
sheltering a concealed space craft. She was no
more than twenty feet long, slim as a projectile,
glistening in the dark hold from the lights Cheroot
and Effluvio held. She might have been a raft,
a launch, any one of the numerous emergency
vessels a spaceship would hold, but she wasn’t;
she was a spaceship herself, fitted out to hold
three people.
We didn’t know this at first. When we entered
the blind closet, the general spun around, and
facing us with him was Captain Effluvio, and a
man we hadn’t seen before among the crew. The
man was small and dark, like all Exoticans, but he
was neatly dressed in a pilot’s uniform, and his
face was furtive but intelligent.
The general didn’t say anything when Jones
pushed past him into the small craft. He didn’t
try to stop Jones or me from going over every
inch of her.
Jones spoke only once before he went back to
Cheroot, and that was when he found the wires
that connected this smaller ship’s controls to the
control board of La Pochata. He said: “You
PENANCE CRUISE
65
remember the way the general landed the ship?
We had nothing to be afraid of. This pilot here
was the one who really landed her.”
Then he went out and said to Cheroot, “I see
why you didn’t care about the space-worthiness of
the ship. You had this ace tucked all the time,
and no matter what happened to us, three of you
could always get away — you, Effluvio, and your
pilot.”
The general shrugged. He might have looked
disinterested except for the fact that in his hands
a heat pistol had materialized. He backed away
while the pilot came over and gently removed our
holsters. We had left our rifles somewhere in the
ship. By now they were gone, too.
“All right,” said Jones, quietly. “You’ll be
going soon enough. Just give us back that trans-
mitter so’s we can call for — ”
The general’s disappointed pout cut him short.
“Unfortunately, I destroy it,” he said. “I have no
use for the fan even when I take it, but I say to
myself, maybe will come a time when it will be in
the way. Some stories is better if no one hear.
So I destroy it.”
“But why?” said Jones, fighting to keep the pain
out of his voice. “Why did you do all this? What
made you bring us all the way out here on a mis-
sion you had no interest in? Why?”
“I see you still do not understand me,” said the
general. “You think I have forget everything — •
the things you do that night in Exotica, the things
you say about me — ” His little eyes glittered with
a strange light, fearsome and vengeful. Hatred
had made him eloquent, almost. “But I do not
forget! I take you here not because I am interest
in Captain Place for the murder — that is the rea-
son I give to your Captain Castle. My reason is
mine, '.✓take you here to do to you what you do
to me — to give you the pain you give to me. I
think later we come back together, but if not, I
know I come back alone.”
“But you can only take three people,” said
Jones. “Even if I deserve this . . . leave me, but
what about the others — your crew?”
“Not important,” the general smiled sullenly.
“I am the general. I leave you these people, these
ignorant, sleepy people. They do not understand
these things. And now, get out. We are going.”
VII.
We sat in the clearing and watched the small
craft emerge from the stern of La Pochata. It
had been carefully planned, from start to bitter
finish. There were special sliding doors built into
the sides of the old ship, doors that had been
camouflaged by the grime and rust of her age.
And when, finally, the new vessel lay on the earth
beside La Pochata, shining in the sunlight that was
fading slowly, she seemed less beautiful than the
old ship that had housed her and carried her to
this wilderness that would be the last resting
place of La Pochata. The old ship had never
given up. Exhausted, battered, still strong — she
would have taken us back if we had been able to
seal her air lock effectively.
No, in the end it was we who had failed the ship.
I looked out across the plains of Forelle, wonder-
ing how long it would be before — That was when
I saw Captain Place almost at the edge of the
woods, where we had placed the mirrors. He was
alone, and I might not have seen him if the sun-
light had not reflected his brilliant, swift-moving
figure, outlined against the horizon far away. I
raised my binoculars and watched him, and then
I turned to Jones. It seemed odd, somehow.
“Place is out there again,” I said. “He’s taking
away one of the mirrors — ”
Slowly, at first, Jones looked at me, as if he
didn’t understand what I was saying. Suddenly
he snatched the glasses from my hands and swept
the horizon. I could see that tiny figure returning,
carrying the mirror he had taken.
“Lord,” Jones muttered feverishly. He couldn’t
stop his hands from trembling. “I was right . . .
I was right — ” he breathed, and he jumped to his
feet, his eyes blazing. “Listen to me,” he said
quickly. “Don’t ask any questions — there’s no
time now. I’ve got to get there before it’s dark.
There’s one thing you must do. Everything de-
pends on it. You’ve got to keep Cheroot from
leaving until I get back! Do you understand?
You’ve got to work it out! Keep him here until
I’m back!”
“But how?” I said, half afraid of him, the way
he looked, and in sudden alarm I cried out, “Where
are you going? You can’t — ”
“Keep him here!” said Jones. He held his hel-
met in his hand as he started running toward
Place.
Later, when the image of his flushed, eager face
returned to me, I didn’t know why I hadn’t run
after him, dragged him back, somehow. He had
gone out across the plains, unarmed, and I had
looked after him until, in the gathering darkness,
he was lost to the naked eye.
I felt alone then, more alone than I had ever
felt before. As long as he had been with me, it had
all seemed bearable. But now there were thoughts
I didn’t dare think. He’ll come back, I told my-
self. It’ll wear off in time. This madness that
had seized him before I could do anything to
counteract it would pass; he would remember the
people who were being left with him, remember
his responsibilities to them. He would come back
to stay to the end, whatever it would be.
I had to keep myself busy until then. That was
the answer. Activity, any kind of activity. Then
I remembered what he had told me to do. There
was no meaning in it because there was no chance.
66
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Keep the general from leaving, he had said. Soon
the general would be gone. He was supervising
the execution of one of his trumps even now.
The pilot and Captain Effluvio had started tak-
ing out food from La Pochata, not the food on
which Jones and I had lived, but the kind of
things of which we had found evidence the night
before; sides of beef, birds, venison, all well pre-
served, all taken now from the secret cache the
general’s foresight had provided. But he had no
more than started the transfer than the crew gath-
ered around and began talking among themselves,
their voices rising in conjecture and dismay.
The general had destroyed the possibility of
mutiny at once. He sent for long coils of hempen
rope, and now he was tying one end of the rope
to the bow of La Pochata; the other end had al-
ready been secured to the stern of his smaller
ship. Evidently he was explaining to the pleased
crew that the smaller craft would tow the larger,
disabled ship after it. The crew, ignorant as he
knew, smiled and congratulated each other, with-
out the remotest realization that the rope would
snap in two the instant after the small vessel
blasted off.
And the general was safe because the crew spoke
nothing but Exotican, and in their simple joy they
were helping him secure the ropes. After that
the fuel would be pumped out of — but there was
a chance! There was a chance while he and his
crew were at the bow of the old ship, before they
would turn their attention to the fuel.
I flattened myself against the side of the ship,
obscure in the growing shadows, and crept back
to the stern. The metal hoses, linking the small
ship’s empty compartments to La Pochata's fuel,
were already in place. A turn of the pumps would
start the transfer. Quickly, I stuck my hand into
the pump and unscrewed a valve. I was ready
to take another, but I stopped. One valve might
have been lost, loosely attached it might have
fallen off ; two valves meant another thing — and
the general had all the weapons. He would know
how to deal with sabotage.
I buried the valve in the sandy earth close to
the ship, and as unobtrusively as I could, went
back and joined the milling crew in time to hear
their cheering as the last rope was knotted in
place.
The general was doing a good job. He now
made a little speech, and only after several more
cheers did he and his two aids start for the fuel
pumps. I straggled along and watched him turn
the pump. The motor coughed and sparks flew,
but the pump didn’t work.
It was ten minutes before the general began
to realize that some serious mishap had occurred.
I watched his annoyance blossom to anger while
his pilot fussed and toyed with the motor, and
more than once he turned his baleful eyes on me.
Finally the pilot attacked the valve section, and
cried out in Exotican to Cheroot.
The general advanced toward me. “Where is the
valve?” he said.
“What valve?”
“You understand what I speak. The valve. The
one from — ” A crafty smile lit up his face. He
pulled his pistol out and said, “Hold up your
hands! No, not this. Hold out your hands.”
I held my hands out for him and tried to look
puzzled. If he thought he was going to find the
slightest trace of oil or grease on my hands, he
was sadly in error. “Well?” I said. His smile
had long since faded. He turned away and shouted
to the crew, and they scurried into the ship, evi-
dently to search for the missing valve.
“Where is Jones?” said the general.
“I don’t know. You saw him run away an hour
ago.”
“Where he went?”
“I don’t know.”
The general turned away. He had come to some
decision.
Hours later, after the crew had given up the
futile search, I found out what it was. A new fire
had been built, and the general had again brought
out his excellent food. He not only offered me
all I wanted, but he passed it out among the crew,
and from their surprised whoops I understood
that this was a new experience for them. 'Ihe
pile of bones of the previous night had belonged
entirely to the general. It wasn’t hard to believe
after I watched him eat again.
“You know,” said the general, speaking very
quietly, so that he couldn’t be overheard, “I make
a mistake. Jones is a smart fellow, very smart.
He have take the valve away. Oh, don’t say me
no! I know this! Well, you think I am mad?”
His little eyes glittered anxiously as he regarded
me. I didn’t answer. “I tell the truth,” he de-
cided reluctantly. “I am mad. But not so mad I
do not understand that I must do something for
him. You understand? I make . . . how you say
... a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
“I take you both with me,” he whispered, looking
out of the corner of his eyes at Effluvio and the
pilot, busy eating. “These people are too ignorant.
I do not know about valves anything, but was
their job to make sure. So now I punish them. I
leave them and take you.”
Wretched as the proposal was, it offered a glim-
mer of hope. If we could get away with the
general, we could bring back help to those the
general was prepared to desert. But Jones was
gone. There wasn’t any sense talking to the gen-
eral. I had to keep telling myself that he was
coming back. I didn’t believe it any more. I
PENANCE CRUISE
67
couldn’t speak to the general, and he took my
silence for acceptance.
Suddenly the general yanked out his heat pistol
and fired across the clearing. Instantly there was
pandemonium. The general fired several more
blasts before the capsule gave out, and then, while
he was shouting at the crew, he broke off and said
to me. “I am so excite I forget what I do. I don’t
mean to shoot him.” He had changed his plans.
“Who were you shooting at?” I cried.
“Jones. You don’t see him when he come out
just now?”
“Get this!” I cried. “Jones hasn’t got that valve
on him. If you try shooting him you’ll kiss your
last chance good-by!”
I ran across the clearing in the direction the
general had fired, shouting Jones’ name. Climbing
over the hillock, I had gone no more than a few
feet when a hand reached up, grabbed my ankle
and sent me tumbling down.
It was Jones. He was still in armor, and he
was wearing his helmet. And in one hand he
clutched a Webley Express heat-ray rifle, a dupli-
cate of the one I had seen in Captain Place’s hands.
He opened the mouthpiece and I could barely
make out his face. It was smeared with blood,
but there was a grin on his lips, a savage grin.
“Why, that bloated beetle!” he exclaimed an-
grily. “I should have fried his wormy heart for
him! What is he shooting at me for?”
I couldn’t believe it was him. I just kept hold-
ing on to him for a minute until I became embar-
rassed. "He thinks you’ve got the valve I stole,”
I said, and quickly I told him everything that
had happened.
“Dirtier and dirtier,” said Jones when I gave
him the general’s proposal. “That grotesque lump
of suet! I’ll fix that maggoty blob of beef ! When
I get through with that walking hamburger — ”
I knew Jones was all right then. “Where’ve
you been?” I said, interrupting. “What have you
been — ”
“Don’t interrupt me,” said Jones. “I haven’t
much time — got to get back right away. Never
mind where! Just get this straight: we’re leaving
in the morning in La Pochata. I said no questions.
Just listen to what you’ve got to do. I’ll give
you a signal early in the morning. You leave a
sheet of paper lying at the edge of the clearing.
When I'm set I’ll bum a hole through it with this
gun. Then you get the whole crew into La Pochata
— everybody, Effluvio and the pilot included. But
not the general! Not him, understand? You stay
outside with him until you see me coming. Then
you’ll know what to do. Got it? So long.”
“Don’t give me that ‘so long’ routine!” I said.
“Where you going? What are you up to? You’ve
got to explain this to me.”
“There’s no time to explain!” said Jones. “I’ve
got to get back in a hurry.” A second moon had
AST— 5G
come up, and I could see how intense he was, how
set his bloodstained face was. He gripped my
hand and started off, only to return and give me
a small heat pistol that he took out of one of his
boots, “Stay as clever as you are and you won’t
need it,” he said, “but maybe it’ll make you feel
better. See you soon!”
He was gone, running quickly through the tall
grass. Minutes later I glimpsed him as he crossed
the beach and was lost against the gray of the
lake. I hid the heat pistol inside my tunic.
When I got back to the fire, General Cheroot
was waiting anxiously. The crew stared at me,
filled with instinctive misgivings.
“You find him?” the general asked.
“Yes,” I said, stalling for time.
“What he say?”
“He doesn’t trust you.”
“Is too bad — for him! What he will do when
Place cqme? What he will do with the moun-
sters? What he will eat meantime?”
I didn’t know the answers. “You shouldn’t have
shot at him,” I said. “He won’t come out until
morning now.” Quickly, I added, “He won’t come
until it’s light enough for him to see you. He
agrees to the deal. He wants you to get the whole
crew into La Pochata when he gives me a signal.
You and I are to stay outside to wait for him.
We all go into the small ship together.”
“Is fine, is fine!” the general agreed nervously.
“But what we will do about Place? The time he
say for us to leave is now!”
“I don’t think we have to worry about Place,”
I said.
“Why not?"
“I don’t know.”
And that, at least, was true —
The night passed slowly. Several times I got up
and walked around. Place’s house was lit, and
even in the flooding moonlight the windows were
like tiny vertical beacons. Once I saw a little
streak of flame come into being and disappear. It
was far away from the pathway that led up the
mountain. The general sat by the fire, wrapped
in blankets, dozing off now and then, and waking
to eat a little more. Without him the crew’s snor-
ing was bereft of feeling.
I must have fallen asleep for a while myself.
When I opened my eyes it was morning. The
general was still sitting not far away, and he had
two heat pistols in his lap. He was loading them
with fresh capsules. Jones was going to get a
rousing welcome if anything went wrong, I knew,
and maybe he would get it anyway, and I with him.
The general saw my eyes open and smiled self-
consciously, and he put the offending weapons
away without haste, as if he hadn’t been up to
much.
I got up quickly and fumbled around in my
68
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
tunic for a sheet of paper, then I started climbing
the hill. After a dozen yards or so I started to
put the paper down — and while I was doing it,
while the paper was still inches from the ground
— a rifle sang out and a small hole instantly ap-
peared in the paper!
I dropped it with a curse. No matter how much
in a hurry he was, Jones had no right taking a
shot like that. Maybe, I thought, it wasn’t Jones.
It was superb shooting, on a par with shooting
I had seen once before on Forelle.
Before I hurried back I scanned the rolling
plains. There was no sign of life anywhere. The
monsters were gone. The woods to my right were
still. Still, somewhere within rifle range, was
Jones. Or so I hoped.
The crew was already awake and on its bewil-
dered way into the broken lock of La Pochata
when I got back. Effluvio, unquestioning was
going with them, but the pilot lingered behind.
He conversed quietly with Cheroot, and, seemingly
satisfied, went into the ship. It was even money
as to whom the general was going to double-cross.
They were all in now. Only the general and I
remained outside, some fifty feet from the ship.
I wondered which of us was more nervous.
Without a word of warning, an armored, hel-
meted figure appeared over the brow of the hillock,
running swiftly for La Pochata. Within a split
second, another armored figure came after it — and
I saw that the second figure was Jones! One hand
waved me toward the ship. Before the general
could turn around, I was running with them.
The first armored figure — it could only have been
Place — reached the ship first. I followed and Jones
jumped in after me. Then Place snapped open
his mouthpiece, leaned out of the lock, and, put-
ting his fingers to his mouth, let out a shrill
whistle.
A series of mighty roars thundered in the air.
Out of the woods, a hundred yards away, the two
fire monsters came lumbering at rapid gait, swing-
ing their heads, shooting out flame!
And now the general, eyes popping out of his
head, came galloping with all his might and main
for the lock ! He had no energy to waste in wail-
ing. Silently, terribly, the monsters gaining on
him, Cheroot came plunging forward, his head
already bent for the impact. Fifteen feet away the
horrible realization must have hit him, but it was
too late. On and on he came, inexorably, the
flames almost upon hm.
With one last surge, the general plunged into the
lock — and stuck there! A rush of air, a sound like
SQUISH! Sudden darkness and nothing more.
Nothing but the general’s terror-stricken coun-
tenance and his tremendous roars of anguish as
the fire monsters outside gave him warm assurance
of friendship. And they were friendly — no mis-
take about that — for while they could have broiled
Cheroot to an all-over tenderness, they contented
themselves rather easily. When, over the wild
sounds of Jones’ uncontrollable laughter, Captain
Place whistled at them, the monsters raised their
massive legs and kicked the bent plates of the
air lock back into position.
It was several moments before I could think
coherently about things, and by then Captain
Effluvio, faced with Jones’ heat gun, had blasted
La Pochata into space, homeward bound.
The general’s magnificent bulk, caught between
the doors of the air lock, filled most of the avail-
able space in the tiny lock. He couldn’t get enough
of a start to jam himself through the smaller
inner-lock doors. And the ancient vessel, its outer
door shut and sealed as it were, by fire, was space-
worthy once more!
I staggered forward to the bridge, and there I
found Jones lying weakly in a corner, his face
contorted with pain, bloodier than ever, and Place
nowhere in sight.
I rolled him over. He caught his breath, and
sobbing gusts of laughter blew out of him, until
the pain became too much again and he had to
hold his belly. I thought he was literally going
to die laughing, which is probably going to be true
some day, and I couldn’t stop him. And then,
wiping his face — wiping those bloodstains — every-
thing began to reel before me, because when I
began to clean off those red smears—
“LIPSTICKr I screamed.
Like a man in a dream, no longer able to feel
emotion, I looked up and saw Captain Place in
the companionway. He was taking off his helmet.
And when he took it off, and in that suit of armor
I saw a lovely girl, a young, lovely girl who stood
there and shook her long chestnut hair, smiling at
me, it didn’t seem the least bit odd. You just have
to take my word for it. It didn’t seem odd at all.
“You must be Bascomb,” she said. “Hello.”
“Hello,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Lila,” she smiled. “Lila Place. You know —
the L. P. who wrote you those pretty letters yes-
terday.”
Later, when I had had several cups of broth, and
was some semblance of the carefree lad who had
shipped with Jones, the three of us sat in the
general’s quarters and I asked questions, and Jones
and Lila together answered them.
“Naturally,” said Jones, “I began discounting
the murder story immediately after Lila abstained
from shooting us that first time she spotted us.
But it wasn’t until the monsters chased us to the
ship that I had the answer to the supposed murder.
Lila herself didn’t completely understand it even
then.
“You see, when the bullets exploded inside the
monsters and came shooting out, I realized that
the identical accident was what must have hap-
PENANCE CRUISE
69
pened to Claude Ponteret and his gang! Ponteret
hadn’t hoped to shoot the monsters at all. He
knew very well that they couldn’t possibly pene-
trate those armored hides — and he had the fatal
salads all planned when he came ! It was more or
less in the natural course of events for us to hit
on the same idea eventually. See?”
“I don’t see,” I said.
“Of course he doesn’t see,” said Lila. “Let me
tell him. First, you really ought to know that
dad, the terrible Captain Place, hasn’t been at
Forelle for months. It’s too dull for him there.
He’s off somewhere now, and I don’t expect him
back for weeks. I went to Forelle for a rest, and
I took care of the ships when they came in for
supplies and water. I used to go around in armor
whenever there was anyone around, just to play
it safe. Not that I was afraid of anything really
happening, not after the way dad taught me to
handle a rifle, and with Babs and Jake with me — ”
“Babs and Jake?” I asked.
“Those precious fire monsters. They’re really
quite tame: they’re in love, you see. But this
man, this Ponteret, did you say? ... he seemed
to have found out that dad wasn’t at Forelle.
Maybe he ran across him somewhere. Anyway,
he came to Forelle once, found the monsters there,
and then came back with his explosive bullets.
I took a few warning shots at his bunch just to
make them jump, but I didn’t pay much attention
to them. I knew they couldn’t hurt Babs and
Jake, and they didn’t have a ship large enough to
take them away, so I didn’t — ”
“Pardon me once again,” I said. “What did
Ponteret want?”
“What Ponteret probably wanted,” said Jones,
“was Forelle itself. The planetoid is worth a
hundred Babs and Jakes. He wanted Forelle, and
with Place off somewhere and an unknown quan-
tity left there, he saw his chance. So he cooked
up this scheme that we hit on accidentally.
“And it backfired, so to speak. Lila never went
near them, but she saw them making up bunches
of grass, just as we did. And then she saw one
of the men fall dead. That was Ponteret, when
one of the bullets hit him. They hit you, too, but
luckily you were wearing armor. So, adding two
and two, the gang figured they could pin a murder
charge on whoever was at Forelle, and the firm of
Penteret and company would stay in business with-
out its late president. Ergo — the story they gave
the Exotican gendarmery, which the general used.
Clear now?”
“Oh, that poor little fat man!” said Lila com-
passionately. “I really ought to bring ljim some
broth again. He must be terribly cold, cooped up
in that air lock.”
“Only a third of him is cold,” said Jones. “An-
other third is furious. And the last third is warm
as toast. Dark toast.”
Smiling tolerantly, the loveliest chunk of femi-
ninity I’d seen m years went out and left us. Her
eyes, her hair, her figure, her voice —
“Well,” said Jones, “now that it's all been ex-
plained to your — ”
“It hasn’t been explained at all!” I shouted.
I’d been saving my new strength for that shout
and it was a beauty. “You think this minor folderol
about Ponteret is what I’m waiting to hear? You’re
not dealing with the general, my dear Scourge!
This is Bascomb, the man who went through that
hell and high water you mentioned, and you’re
the one who got Place ! Who went places, I might
add!”
“What d’you want to know?” said Jones weakly.
“You knew it wasn’t Captain Place up on that
mountain ! You knew plenty that you kept to your-
self, and not because I had access to a dictionary !
I demand to know when you knew what you knew
and when you knew you knew it ! Is that perfectly
clear?”
“Ahhhh,” said Jones with a luxurious smile,
“that comes under the heading of secrets of the
trade, but you deserve it, my boy, and you shall
have it.” And he wallowed a moment longer in
the secret delight of his thoughts.
“The first clue,” he expounded, “was the hand-
writing on that first letter. Long, flowing lines —
they looked rather feminine to me immediately,
but after that exhibition of shooting we’d seen,
it didn’t seem possible. Then the captain came to
70
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
our camp, sparing our lives a second time. The
second note he left was the second clue: the same
beautiful handwriting. The sentiments were
harsh, but the writing — ”
“You didn’t do it on handwriting!” I said. “Don’t
sit there and tell me you did it on handwriting!”
“I didn’t say so, did I? They were merely
clues, like the captain’s not shooting us. But then
we stopped playing around and went after the
monsters in earnest. Now the captain had reason
to be both alarmed and angry. But did he shoot
my head off when he had an excellent chance?
NO!”
“I’ll do the yelling!” I yelled. “You mean to
say that fact of your life being spared convinced
you?”
“Why not?” Jones demanded. “Why not, may
I ask? Who but a woman endowed with excellent
eyes and cultivated judgment, would spare my life
in such a situation?” He puckered his lips and
looked at me and sighed. “All right, I confess.
It didn’t convince me. It was just another clue,
emphatic this time. But then came the devastat-
ing blow, just when twilight was beginning to
merge with gloomy — ”
“What was it?”
“The mirrors!” said Jones, delightedly. “There
was Captain Place sneaking out to take back a
full-length mrror ! What would a man want with
a mirror? Don’t you see? That clinched it!
When I saw that armored person taking back a
mirror I knew it was a woman ! So off I ran.”
“Fearlessly,” I added bitterly. “Off you ran
to be welcomed by eager arms. And it couldn’t
have taken you long to reach a reasonable under-
standing with the beauteous Lila — ” I mused
quietly. “So tell me this: isn’t it true that when
you came back you had already worked out the
plan to get La Pochata back in space? Sure, you
had me prepare everything for it. Therefore, isn’t
it likewise true that you could have worked the
plan then and there? Isn’t it? So what was that
business you gave me about the urgent need for
you to get back? Huh?”
Jones looked genuinely hurt.
“What a thing to say,” he said. “You know
damn well the Forellean nights are short. I had
to get back to make the most of it. Ten moons,
B f
man. Ten big, gorgeous moons and Lila and
Fletcher. Picture it, man!”
“I am picturing it,” I groaned.
“You don’t begrudge me last night, do you?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said, honestly. “All
I’m picturing is what you’re going to have to put
into that log. But I don’t begrudge you a thing,”
I said as Lila returned and sat down very close to
Jones. “It couldn’t have happened to a better
guy.”
I ate those last words several times on our way
back to Exotica. He and Lila would lock them-
selves up for hours in the general’s quarters, play-
ing cribbage. I don’t play cribbage, as Jones well
knew, and the game seems to require intense con-
centration, as everyone knows. So what I did
most of the time was play with the general and
the crew. We made paper airplanes from the dic-
tionary pages and threw them at the air lock from
fifteen paces, the object being to miss the general,
who filled the space quite well. The crew gambled
on every throw, but I was lonely —
Well, we got back three days ago. The fleet
was in a day before us, and two days ago we had
a big review and Jones and I were decorated. The
publishable parts of the log are being reprinted
in the next issue of the Service Manual. I sup-
pose we’re heroes. Everyone says we’re heroes,
and a cinch for Lieutenant, Second Class, on the
next list. Captain Castle has been sick for two
days and today he went off to see a psychiatrist.
Lieutenant Haddock is running the Star Swallow,
but his mind isn’t on his work, and our crew is
going wild all over Exotica. We’re going to be
here a few days more.
The general? They demoted him from sheriff
of the Para hills to deputy sheriff, that’s all. The
doctors who are treating him for scorch and mil-
dew say that his is a deep-seated ailment, and
that for the next few years, whenever he sits down,
a slight tinkling noise will be manifest. It is
hoped that polite people will ignore it, since he is,
after all, a general, and entitled to more than the
usual frailties.
And Jones? Hah! Jones hasn’t been seen since
ten minutes after the decoration ceremonies, at
which Lila Place was an enthusiastic spectator.
Oddly enough, she’s missing, too.
THE END.
SPACE CAN
By L Ron Hubbard
• Boarding cutlasses went out with sail ships— but if men refuse
to be licked, even when their ship's a hopeless ruin, it can be done—
Illustrated by Kolliker
Lancing through space, slammed along by a
half million horses, the United States destroyer
Menace anxiously sought the convoy which had
been wailing to all the Universe for aid but now
was still, still with an ominous quiet which could
mean only its defeat.
She was only one, the Menace and “they” would
be more than one, but the little space can charged
ahead, knowing well that she was a pebble from
the mighty slingshot of the embattled fleet, a
pebble where there should have been a shower of
stones. Gracefully vicious, a bundle of frail feroc-
ity, a wasp of space designed for and consecrated
to the kill, the Menace flamed pugnaciously on-
ward; she had her orders, she would carry them
out to the last ounce of her fuel, the last charge in
72
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
her guns and the last man within her complex and
multiple compartments. She carried the Stars and
Stripes upon her side, gold lace upon her bridge
and infinite courage in her heart, for upon her
belligerent little nose rested the full tradition of
four-hundred-odd years of navy, a tradition which
took no dares, struck no colors and counted no
odds.
She should have been a flotilla in this lonely
cube of space, but with the fleet embattled off
Saturn no flotilla could be spared. She had done
other jobs, hard ones in this long war. There was
faith in her, too much perhaps, and so she was here
alone, raking the black with her detectors, bris-
tling with impatience to engage the enemy, be he
cruiser or battleship or just another destroyer;
she was a terrier who had no eyes for the size of
her rats.
On her bridge a buzzer sawed into the roar of
her motion and her executive officer stood aside
to permit her summoned captain a view of the
detector. Her captain, Lieutenant Carter, steadied
himself with a hand on Ensign Wayton’s shoulder,
and his face, usually young and efficient, became
weary as he looked at the message which regis-
tered there.
In the detector, the supply ships were colorless
spots, unmoving, without order. Among them
were fainter dots which gruesomely indicated
ships which were growing cool, having been
emptied of air. Because spacesuits might mean
desertion of crews near the first port, there were
few in naval vessels unless they were crack ships
like the Menace. This battle was almost over and
there would be many, many dead.
One spot began to turn violet, which meant that
a vessel, friend or foe, was heading toward the
Menace.
Second-class Petty Officer Barnham was already
training an analoscope on the red spot. He shuf-
fled the spectrum plates of all navies until he had
one which would compare with the lines on his
screen.
“Saturn destroyer, sir,” said Barnham matter-of-
factly.
Lieutenant Carter shook himself into the fight-
ing machine he was trained to be. The situation
was a plain one, a simple one. The convoy had
been set upon by a raiding fleet, the existence of
which had not been suspected. Bravely the train’s
escorts had flashed into battle and had fought their
ships to the last pound of air; that they had not
done badly was indicated by the fact that only two
Saturn vessels remained in action; that the entire
escort was dead was plain in the silence of the
battle communicator; that the supply ships were
paralyzed and already half destroyed was to be
found in the garble which spewed and gibbered
from the all-channel speaker.
Another spot which had evidently been traveling
parallel to their course and so had showed white,
now glowed dull-red and Barnham said in a flat
voice, “Another Saturn vessel, sir.”
They were coming up now into action. They
had perhaps thirty minutes of strain in store be-
fore the first searching blasts of flame came to
them and their own guns began to seek the vitals
of the enemy. The captain pushed a thumb down
upon the battle-stations’ button and the clanging
roar broke the tight lines which had invisibly
stretched through the little destroyer.
It was a matter of seconds until Lieutenant Car-
ter had his battle plan. Plainly, he wanted noth-
ing to do with this first destroyer, for he could
feel from across black space the eagerness of hope
in it that he would attack it and disregard the
second ship, while that vessel, with all the brutal
efficiency of a thing which knows nothing but de-
struction, blasted the life from the remainder of
the supply vessels.
Abruptly, Lieutenant Carter understood a thing,
which in his inevitable resentment at being de-
tached from the great battle had escaped him, and
he understood, too, that insufficient weight had
been given to this mission. He should have been
started early. He should have the rest of his
flotilla in a comfortable V behind him. For now
the detector gave out information in shape instead
of light and disclosed that this supply train con-
sisted of the majority of fuel vessels possessed by
the navy. Someone had blundered. Intelligence
had failed to discover that an enemy raiding fleet
had slipped away from Saturn; guard ships had
blundered in letting it through; flag had erred by
not suspecting the possibility. For in those big
hulks was the blood of the fleet and without it
victory or destruction were the only alternatives:
The battle fleet, already far beyond its radius, had
no reserve. And from the state of his own bunkers,
Lieutenant Carter knew that no one had sufficient
fuel to return to Earth!
Everywhere through the ship men were strap-
ping themselves at their posts or donning the
heavy padding which would protect them against
the violent course changes which would throw the
complement about like dice in a cup.
“Aloft ten, right rudder nineteen,” said the
captain.
The Menace leaped as the steering jets slammed
her into her new course as though she was unwill-
ing to even countenance a thing which sought to
avoid battle.
The screens of the enemy showed the action
without much lag, and an instant later, the Saturn
vessel was killing her speed on her old course and
blasting into a new one which would again inter-
cept the Menace.
The Saturnian, grudged Ensign Wayton, was
SPACE CAN
73
well handled. Getting by her to engage the sec-
ond, was not going to be simple.
Lieutenant Carter leaned back in his deep com-
mand seat and apparently lost interest in the whole
thing, for there was a vague look in his eyes and
a relaxed expression about his mouth. Seeing this,
the quartermaster let out a small explosive sigh,
for he knew that they would engage the first
enemy.
Actually, the captain was examining the vast
panel of meters which gave the small bridge the
appearance of being set in diamonds and gold.
When he saw that all guns were ready, that all
tubes were firing, that the air pressure was even
throughout the ship and the new tanks broached to
give the men more energy and courage, he turned
slightly to the blue-and-gold figure in the other
wing and said quietly, “We will engage, Mr.
Wayton.”
Ensign Wayton’s hands tensed over the panel
above his knees and then fluttered for an instant as
though he needed to test the buttons which would
fire the batteries.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Ensign Wayton. He was
breathing quickly, as though to supercharge his
body with oxygen and hurl himself rather than
flame projectiles at the enemy.
On the after bridge, before a similar but less
complete board, Ensign Gates stood a lonely
watch. He could look down the hatch just behind
him and see the tense crew around the base of the
Burmingham jet of the starboard engine. Ensign
Gates swept his eyes back to the control panel,
checked the telltales there and then glanced at his
own quartermaster. The man, a heavy-set sailor
from Iowa, who still bore, after twenty years in
space, the stamp of his State upon him, looked
impersonally into the sphere compass which mir-
rored the stars and planets. He felt the officer’s
eyes on him and edged his appearance with a sharp
professionalism, as though this might communi-
cate a greeting to the placid little ensign, of whom
the quartermaster was fond in a shy, defiant way.
Ensign Gates grinned to himself, for he knew
the meaning of the change in his quartermaster.
He said something to the man, but the remark was
engulfed in the crashing shudder of the port
twenty-nines. They were engaged.
Time stood still and two vicious dots of ferocity
slashed at each other in an immense black cube of
vacuum. Shells burst like tiny flowers when they
missed, or flashed like yellow charges of electricity
when they struck. The Menace became filled with
acridity. Somewhere in her a man was screaming
an insane battle cry, and elsewhere blue blots of
profanity hung thickly around guns and tubes
and stoke ports.
Compartment 21 was holed and sealed from
the rest of the ship between the beats of a chro-
nometer. Compartment 16 turned into a blazing
furnace and was sealed alike.
In the exact center of the ship, which was the
after OTidge, Ensign Gates placidly kept track of
the enemy in the event that his firing panel had to
take over. His active duty here was the oversee-
ing of the engineering force, aft and below, but
two tough chiefs were cursing themselves into a
comfortable berth in Hades around the molten
breaches of the tubes and needed no help.
“Hulled her!” barked the annunciator. Forward,
Ensign Wayton spunded like a man cheering a
baseball game rather than the director of that
deadly blast. And then an instant later, “Hulled
her!”
There was a crash topside and a man, bellowing
agony and rage, hurled himself down a ladder.
He was a mass of flames. The emergency squad
member there smothered him swiftly in a blanket.
Compartment 6 was sealed and everyone in her.
A small amount of Ensign Gates’ placidity left
his face. They were being severely knocked about
by a vessel which had a longer range and a faster
steering system, which was landing four hits to
their two.
“Hulled her!” cried Ensign Wayton, an invisible
source of death forward and above. Evidently
something had happened to the Saturnian, for an
instant later, in a steady stream, Wayton began to
chant the Menace’s hits.
Examining the panel before him, Ensign Gates
believed that a lucky shot had penetrated the
steering jets of the enemy, for he was now travel-
ing in a straight line through the remaining three
vessels of the convoy as if to help out the other
Saturnian in the convoy’s destruction before this
raging little wasp of space put an end to everyone.
Just as the Menace flashed by a halted supply ves-
sel, it bloomed into a sphere of scarlet death, the
ammunition and highly explosive fuel igniting all
at once.
Lieutenant Carter gazed calmly at the fleeing
enemy, but the calmness was an official sort of
thing, for there was sorrow for the supply ships
and anger for the Saturnian snarled into a lump
behind his gray eyes. Each time the Menace got
a salvo home the captain twitched forward and a
contraction of muscles above his mouth made him
grin a split second at a time. His role was that of
spectator so long as the ship was on her target, for
then her steering was wholly between the gunnery
officer and the helmsman.
With a blast close aboard, the Saturnian folded
itself like a smashed tin can, and what had been an
efficient fighting ship an instant before, was now a
scrap of volitizing metal.
“Well done, Mr. Wayton,” said Lieutenant Car-
ter.
Ensign Wayton turned glowing eyes and battle-
reddened cheeks upon his captain and didn’t see
74
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
him at all. He was already seeking the other
Saturnian on his screen, was the gunnery officer,
as though this first ship had merely served to
calibrate his guns.
“Engage the second enemy, Mr. Wayton,” said
Lieutenant Carter.
The Menace, bristling and sure of herself, shot
a streak of power from her starboard bow and
stabbed into a new course, three quick jets on the
port bow and one below, settling her into this.
Telepathically, Lieutenant Carter was aware of
his enemy’s abrupt distaste for combat with him,
now that the first Saturnian had been blasted from
the action, but there was nothing in the action of
the second vessel to indicate its dislike, for It
turned now away from the supply vessel it had
intended to spear, and streaked in a wide bank to
bring her into a broadside parallel with the
Menace.
Ensign Wayton adjusted his screen with the
motor button and gave a swift check to the com-
putator and then, because he was already ranged,
sent all six guns of the port battery into a furious
crescendo.
The Menace, dancing sideways from the recoils
and being jabbed back by the adjusters, shivered
with some vague premonition.
The Saturnian destroyer passed through the
cone of concentration, sliding sideways to the
Menace at a swift pace to throw off range and for
some other purpose which was not to be fathomed
for several seconds. The Saturnian’s guns were
winking bright spots and her flame wake, as it
turned to white powdery smoke, curved and feath-
ered. She was a well-built little vessel, a few feet
longer than the Menace and thicker through.
Lieutenant Carter scanned space with his detec-
tor but found no sign of reinforcement for the
remaining destroyer.
The Menace shivered as she was knocked off
course. The check board blinked and Compart-
ment 26 vanished from it. Then, in terrifyingly
swift order, the lights, indicating Compartments
27, 28, 29 and 30, went black.
An annunciator above the captain’s post said in
a calm voice, “Starboard magazine gone. Fire
spreading.”
The quartermaster’s eyes flicked to the captain.
Ensign Wayton hesitated for an instant over his
firing buttons and then his gold stripe flashed as
he located and aimed all three space torpedoes on
the starboard. He launched them and said in a
tightly casual voice to the quartermaster, “Roll a
hundred and eighty.” Ensign Wayton, having no
starboard batteries, was in action with the port.
Compartments 31, 25 and 36 went out in order.
The air in the ship was unbreathable.
“Spacesuits,” said Lieutenant Carter into the
annunciator. “All hands.”
The space torpedoes were sped, but only one had
struck. This in the after section of the Saturnian
where it had caused a vast fan of bright fireworks.
It had wiped out the stern balancing jets, but that
vessel’s main propulsions were apparently without
harm.
A new crash shook the Menace and the big light
which marked the after bridge went black.
There was the smallest hint of concern in
Lieutenant Carter’s voice. “Mr. Gates!”
Silence answered.
With steel bands on his nerves, his voice care-
fully steady, Lieutenant Carter said, “Mr. Gates.
Please report.”
There was silence which hung for a heartbeat
throughout the entire vessel.
Dead-white, Ensign Wayton glanced at his cap-
tain. It was an appeal of dependence, shot with-
out thought, an agonized hope that something
could be done, a last belief in the impossibility
that anything could ever happen to placid, easy,
Ensign Gates.
Lieutenant Carter did not look at his executive
officer. In a flat, official voice he said, “Grapple
the enemy.”
The heat was so intense in the dying Menace
that men felt it through their spacesuits. They
were unwilling to begin upon their private stores
of oxygen until smoke was too thick in the hull to
be breathed. Now they were in communication
with helmet phones.
Space-garbed, a relief came to the quartermaster
to allow him to climb into his suit. He had been
standing there, strangling and sweating at the
helm and he would have stood there until he had
melted if his relief had not come. The captain
took the firing panel while Ensign Wayton slid
into his suit. And then Lieutenant Carter dropped
into his own ready covering. The captain gasped
with relief as he sucked in air.
There was a clatter in the phones as arms were
being issued out. Though the batteries were firing
still, the helmet cut down their roaring to a trem-
ble, which one felt with his body. There was
something ominous and horrible in this silence
for every man on the ship, for each was affected
alike in the connection of the silence to a sudden
surge of loneliness. For perhaps three minutes
there was irregularity in the smoothness of the
execution of duties, and then the first shock of
quiet wore away and men began to talk to each
other on the individual battery frequencies, began
to swear anew, began to revile and damn this
enemy who was destroying the sleek little Menace.
Still firing. Ensign Wayton was adjusting his
ranges so as to sweep them in closer and closer to
the attacking ship. The Saturnian was suffused
with superiority and satisfaction, for the burning
wake of the Menace was plainly visible as were
SPACE CAN
75
the gaping holes in her skin, and this feeling,
knowing it existed, Lieutenant Carter utilized by
ordering unsteady leaps and veering as though the
vessel were not quite under complete control.
Confident and disdainful, the Saturnian wel-
comed the closing. She even swept to starboard,
little by little, to aid the action. It was her belief
that, gunnery was the only concern of the Menace
and this, from a blasted vessel with only two guns
still going, she could amply risk.
Further punishment awaited the navy ship, for
she could not come so close without being struck
repeatedly. Her bow vanished to within twenty
feet of the bridge and she was steering now with
her guns alone, having two amidships port and one
forward starboard as well as her one-inch batteries
on the bridge itself. She was rolling, tortured,
nearly out of control, darting up and back and even
tumbling when she came within a quarter of a mile
of the Saturnian. And then what happened was
swiftly done. The grapnels were still in action as
they had been designed to be, and the one last ace
of the gallant little vessel was played.
With a shuddering stab which tightened and
held, the invisible claws of the Menace fastened
upon the Saturnian and sucked them together with
a swiftness which could only end in a numbing
crash.
The shock of collision further crumpled the
nose and drove a deep bulge into the side of the
Saturnian. The latter had been panicked upon
the instant of realization that something was amiss
and had sought to charge away into space and
get free, momentarily forgetful that she still pos-
sessed a superior force of men. But now that the
adhesion was achieved, she ceased blasting and
prepared for the fur y which would come — which
was already on its way.
Disintegrators in the hands of a burly C. P. O.
and his gang ate a hole into the Saturnian at the
point of contact as though that hull consisted of
cheese.
There was no more on the bridge for Lieutenant
Carter. Here his responsibility was done. Ensign
Wayton was already gone from the panel and the
quartermaster, a huge machete he favored in close
quarters, gripped competently in his hand, was
just vanishing through the hatch.
“Boarders away!” the captain barked at the
annunciator in his helmet. He was through the
hatch before the yell had ceased to beat against
his own ears.
Ahead he saw a knot of men launching itself
against another knot which barred the ragged
circle of emptiness which led into the Saturnian.
Flame was spitting back into the boarders from
viciously wielded jets and here and there a space-
suit was giving way to the heat. And then Carter
threw himself through the group, jet pistol in
hand, and torpedoed himself into the mob just
within the Saturnian. With a howl of approval,
the sailors followed their captain.
The mass in which he found himself cut at him,
shot at him, grabbed at him and Carter, spinning
around and around and firing a space clear, yelled
defiantly but incoherently at them.
For several seconds the captain did not realize
that the Saturnian had been too contemptuous to
don spacesuits — if they had them — for, at best, it
was difficult to use them at the guns. It had never
occurred to the enemy destroyer that a thing as
mad as a boarding would be attempted by such a
mauled ship, particularly since the odds in men
against such a ship would be three to one.
The curiously pointed heads of the repelling
sailors ducked back from the fury of the pistol
and then the mass swept deeper into the ship, evi-
dently in receipt of an order which was calculated
to draw the invaders into passageways where fast-
firing small arms could be brought into play upon
them.
Swirling about their captain, the seamen of the
Menace cut down the stragglers and slipped in
their blood. Few guns were here, for the sailors
uniformly preferred steel when close quarters were
to be had.
Suddenly the front rank of the invaders was
swept back, driving their followers to cover. Two
of the bodies were dead and projectiled toward
the Menace by the fury of the fire they had met.
Ensign Wayton, a furiously moving monster in
his spacesuit, shot to their fore, insane for an in-
stant in the belief that his captain had been killed.
When he saw Lieutenant Carter, he stopped
screaming into his helmet. He halted.
“Spread into cover,” said Carter quickly. “Try
to filter up into the ship through those hatches.
But don’t press them closely and don’t risk your
men.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Ensign Wayton. He spent
no time in wondering why his captain went back
through the crowd, for he had received his orders
and he would carry them out to the last word and
with his last breath. He looked around him at the
shining walls of the gun room in which they had
"arrived and crisply told off a chief petty officer to
burn out a section of its wall. If the passages were
covered, there would be other ways of getting
through the ship. He had an instant’s wonder
about their fate, for he knew very well that this
handful, less than twenty — less than fifteen he saw
with a shock — were pitted against at least fifty
well-armed in their own ship.
“Lively, now,” said Ensign Wayton.
As captain. Lieutenant Carter had no questions
to answer or reasons to give. He was glad of that.
76
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
He had a competent officer in Ensign Wayton,
who knew what to do if anything happened to his
commander. And this was a job Lieutenant Carter
could not relegate to anyone.
He faltered for an instant on the threshold of
the burning Menace. It was not the heat which
repelled him so much as the unwillingness to see
again this dying little vessel which had been, until
such a short time before, a well-ordered, ship-
shape example of what a United States navy de-
stroyer should be. Here, for two years, he had
gone through the routines, the problems and the
alternating bursts of good and bad news which
had marked this campaign. He had been one with
an alive, sensitive creature of steel and chromium
and flame, and to enter her now was like walking
upon the corpse of one’s friend. He had a feeling
that she should be left alone, as she was, to die,
still facing the enemy.
Lieutenant Carter stepped over the jagged sill
of the hole which had been carved in the Saturnian.
The need of haste was upon him now, both because
the possibility of his getting through the flames
before him required speed and because this was a
hideous job, the better to be done quickly.
The first blast struck him when a gun charge
fired somewhere on the deck nearby. He was
catapulted against the steel bulkhead and stood
there for an instant in the swirling yellow gloom,
shaking his head and trying to recall what he was
about. Anxiously, he gripped at the illusive facts,
for he was badly stunned. Then, with clearing
sight, he sped aft and up through the curling
tongues which had already stripped the paint from
the walls.
There was no resemblance to the trim little
Menace in this twisted, blackened mess through
which he drove himself. He tried to think there
was not. He knew there was.
He fumbled in his bag for a grenade as he
lurched through the painful fog and when he had
it in his thick glove, it required much of his nerve
to keep it with him, for tongues of fire were reach-
ing at it, heating it.
He found the ladder to the engine room. The
grease had burned away, and because it was hot,
his shoes stuck tenaciously to the rungs as though
the Menace, lonely, was trying for the company
of her master in a last shiver of her death throes.
Lieutenant Carter could feel a throb which did
not come from flames. He worked toward it. He
seemed to be taking forever for this task. The
air in his tank was already scalding his lungs.
The ship’s oxygen tanks must be feeding these
flames, and if that were so, then they might ex-
plode at any instant. They were close above him
now.
He found the generators, still running furiously
in all this heat, fed by the treble-protected bat-
teries which made a boarding possible after a ship
was in ruins. He hauled a plate from the first
layer of armor and then groped through the sec-
ond and third. That he tried to pull the pin of
the grenade with his teeth, recalled him into a
calm and orderly chain of thought. He plucked
at the pin with his glove-thick fingers and got it
out. He dropped it upon the batteries and in the
same motion, spun about and staggered toward
the ladder. The heat inside his suit was so in-
tense now that he had to will himself to breathe,
and each time he did he flinched as he felt his
lungs shrink away.
He clawed through a hatch and scrambled down
a passageway. Blind and groping, he found the
door in the yellow smoke and stumbled through.
The jagged hole in the side of the Saturnian was
just ahead of him, he knew. He could not see it.
He sought along the plates with anxious fingers.
Abruptly, he was tumbling forward, breath
knocked out of him by another exploding charge.
Dazedly, he lifted his helmeted head.
There was a great, sighing rush of smoke and fire
and a mighty hand snatched him from the deck
and slammed him against plates. Groggily, he
fought again to rise and then fought even harder,
for it would have been very comforting to slump
and go out, with the hands of his sailors support-
ing him.
The smoke of the Menace had filled this com-
partment of the Saturnian. But there was no
smoke here now. And there was no air. The
empty vacuum was greedy and swelled out the
spacesuits to their normal proportions. Where
the Menace had been there was now only a gaping
black hole. Once her generators, which kept the
grapnels alive, had been shorted out the furious
efforts of upper gunners in the Saturnian had at
last succeeded in blowing her away from the side.
Ensign Wayton was grinning through his trans-
parent helmet when he had at last ascertained that
his captain was safe and not seriously hurt.
Through the phones, Ensign Wayton said, “Sir,
we have carved our way through the bulkheads
into their after bridge. We have lost but three
men. Your orders?”
“Yes,” said Lieutenant Carter. “Yes, of course.”
He shook his head vigorously to clear it. “Well
done, Mr. Wayton.” Then thought took over from
mechanical form and with a glad surge he gripped
his officer by the shoulder. “Quick! Open their
compartments! Open their compartments!”
The idea flooded in upon Ensign Wayton. It
was less than twenty feet up to the hole their jets
had carved into the bridge deck. The one dead
sailor from the Menace and the officer and two
quartermasters of the Saturnian were bloated, even
exploded, into no semblance of humanity or
SPACE CAN
77
saturnity. The C. P. O., who held the fort there
belligerently, cut away at the bulkhead with his
jet and suddenly a great gust of air and equipment
shot him back.
Ensign Wayton steadied himself at the com-
partment board and began to open the switches.
Some of them were frozen and he realized that the
master panel was on the forward bridge. The
compartments went shut and their lights began to
go out. An officer up there was thinking fast.
Ensign Wayton thought faster. He snatched at
the auxiliary voice tube caps and yanked them.
Into the holes he poured a dozen flame shots. A
scream of air, loud enough to penetrate the thick
space helmets, greeted his action. The hurricane
which came through the voice tubes from the for-
ward bridge, knocked him backward. The master
panel had been cut in. Suddenly all panel lights
glowed on the auxiliary board as lack of air pres-
sure on tiie forward bridge threw control aft.
With swift hands. Ensign Wayton switched the
compartments open throughout the ship and a
shuddering wail went through the vessel, every
plate trembling as the life poured from her. Those
suits, denied the Saturnians to insure their fight-
ing to the last compartment, had cost her, finally
and forever, her crew.
Lieutenant Carter, beside his officer, spoke on
the general-order frequency of his helmet. “At-
tention. Proceed carefully through the vessel and
clean out anyone left in her.” He turned to En-
sign Wayton. “Take over, Mr. Wayton.”
Seating himself at the communicator, Lieutenant
Carter’s eyes were vague with thoughtfulness.
Absently, he commented that Washington’s one-
time predilection for trading patents was not with-
out benefit, for this communicator panel might
have borne the stamp of Bell Radiophone for its
similarity.
He knew he should feel jubilant, knew that he
should savor this report to the battle fleet, knew
that victory and triumph were personally his.
But, somehow, he had ashes on his tongue and
the words he tried to arrange in his mind were
dull, gray things.
He was thinking now of the Menace. In the
let-down which had followed this battle, he knew
he would think of her more and more. Proud,
arrogant little space can, smashed by the insensate
hates of a space war, drifting a derelict, a battered
sacrifice to her pride, a dead cold thing lost in the
immensity to be shunned by all vessels who sighted
her as a navigational risk.
There was victory but there was no victory. He
could not think of a proper report, one which
would measure up to the little scrap of history
they had made. This story would be told in
wardrooms for many years, how the little space
can took on two larger than she, how she had saved
the supply vessels of the battle fleet and how she
had died in the saving. Lieutenant Carter could
not see the panel clearly and was annoyed with
himself. He flung away from it and the reports
which were coming to him now concerning the
state of the Saturnian, reports which were good,
had only a routine meaning. They reached his
ears, his official mind, but they went no deeper.
There was a slight jar through the ship, a thing
which required no explanation but which seemed
to herald something electric. Lieutenant Carter
glanced about him. He swung down the ladder to
the lower gun room and glanced questioningly at
the sentry stationed by the jagged hole in the
Saturnian’s hull.
And then Carter froze. .
For the hole was no longer empty! Had he
dreamed that he got the Menace away from there?
Had it been possible that she would not have her-
self abandoned?
There she was, the Menace! With her shattered
bow pushed up into position and the fire-scarred
depths of her clear of flame, she bumped gently
against her conquered enemy.
And as Lieutenant Carter stared, he saw a man
in spacesuit moving toward him out of the shat-
tered ship, followed by yet another.
Lieutenant Carter started and then quickly com-
posed himself by pushing away the surge of ela-
tion which coursed through him.
The man in the spacesuit saluted. “Ensign
Gates, sir. Fire shorted our conduits and cut us
off. As soon as we dressed and opened the after
bridge, we had things under control there. When
the air went out of her hull, the fires stopped.
She isn’t in such bad shape, sir. Your orders?”
Lieutenant Carter saw through a strange misti-
ness and carefully pitched his voice for calmness.
“Very good, Mr. Gates. You will take charge of
the repair parties as soon as we get air back into
these ships.” He returned his engineering officer’s
salute with unusual smartness.
Gently, the little Menace nudged her battered
nose against the hull of her conquered enemy as
though to remind the Saturnian that a ship, even
when shot half to hell, should never be considered
in any light save that of a dangerous adversary.
For an instant Carter was startled into a belief that
the Menace was laughing and then he saw that the
sound issued from his phones and was sourced
aloft where Gates and Wayton were gladly greet-
ing each other. It amused him to think that his
ship could laugh, for the fact was most ridiculous.
Or was it? — he asked himself suddenly. Or was it?
THE END.
• 78
STARS ALSO HAVE RINGS
• It is a physical impossibility, due to the properties of light, to make a tele-
scope capable of revealing the geography of another stellar system. We'll
never be able to see planets, or any such small, dark structures about other
suns. No electronic amplifier can magnify detail that the light itself doesn't
J contain. But there is one type of amplifier that works— brain-power!
By R. S. Richardson
How many times have you seen this statement
in the textbooks : “Saturn is unique among all the
heavenly bodies in that it is surrounded by an
extensive ring system.”
Dozens of times, no doubt. But those books are
all out of date now. For it isn’t true any more.
Announcement has just been made of the discov-
ery of a star surrounded by a thin luminous ring
of hydrogen gas in rapid rotation. Seen by the
naked eye from a distance of a billion miles, it
would closely resemble the planet Saturn when
viewed through a small telescope.
The object in question is the eclipsing binary
RW Tauri. The more massive component of the
system is a brilliant, intensely hot star of spectral
class B9; the secondary is a much fainter and
cooler star of type KO. The KO star is roughly
twice the diameter of the B9 and eclipses it once
every two days, eighteen hours.
Only during totality can the presence of the KO
star be detected. At all other times its faint light
is completely drowned out by its blazing com-
panion.
Many eclipsing pairs are similar to this one and
behave in much the same way — except for one
very curious circumstance. If spectrograms are
taken in rapid succession as the eclipse comes on,
they show only the usual characteristics of a B9
star up until the moment of second contact when
the KO star has totally blocked out the B9. Then
a most extraordinary phenomenon occurs. The
spectrum suddenly does a complete change-over
from that of a hot star with dark hydrogen absorp-
tion lines to one showing bright hydrogen lines
only. (Weak emission lines of ionized Mg, Ca,
and Fe can also be detected.) What is more, these
bright hydrogen lines are much displaced to the
red side of their normal positions in the spectrum,
indicating a Doppler shift corresponding to a
velocity of two hundred ten miles per second away
from the observer.
The brght hydrogen lines soon fade away, leav-
ing only the faint dark-line absorption spectrum
of the KO star. But thirty minutes later the
bright lines flash out again, only this time dis-
placed toward the violet by an amount indicating
a velocity of two hundred ten miles per second
toward the observer. As the KO star passes on,
the dazzling light .from the B9 star predominates
at once and the spectrum becomes that of an ordi-
nary hot star.
To produce an effect of this kind, there must be
some sort of an extension from opposite sides of
the B9 star. A huge prominence seems out of the
question since it could hardly be so obliging as to
remain there for weeks at precisely the right
position. About the only feature that fills the
bill is a thin, luminous ring surrounding the star
in the region of its equator.
Although many details remain to be investi-
gated, there can be little doubt as to the main facts
in the case. The ring is believed to have a diame-
ter about four times that of the sun and make a
rotation once every fourteen hours.
A. H. Joy, who discovered the existence of the
rings from spectrograms taken with the one-hun-
dred-inch reflector on Mount Wilson, plans to
explore the dynamics of this peculiar double-star
system.
STARS ALSO HAVE RINGS
79
I. Large, faint KO type star about to eclipse
smaller, more brilliant B9 star with lumi-
nous ring of hydrogen gas surrounding it.
Spectroscopic analysis of light shows only
presence of B9 star.
IV. The B9 star and its ring are both totally
eclipsed for thirty minutes. During this
phase, spectroscope shows only very faint
solarlike spectrum of the KO star.
II. The B9 star, although partially eclipsed,
still so far outshines KO star that spec-
troscope reveals only usual B9 spectral
characteristics.
III. At moment when B9 star is completely
(blocked out, brilliant bright lines of hy-
drogen gas flash out. These bright lines
show Doppler shift to red side of normal
position, indicating velocity away from
observer of 210 miles per second.
V. At third contact, ring on other side is
revealed and spectroscope now shows
bright hydrogen lines again, but this time
shifted to the violet by an amount indi-
cating velocity of 210 miles per second
toward the observer.
VI. Spectrum is now same as that in I., a
typical hot B9 star only. Entire process
repeated in two days, eighteen hours.
80
COLLISION ORBIT
By Will Stewart
• Introducing a new author and a fascinating idea.* the control and
use of "seetee"— contraterrene matter. Science-fiction's discussed the
danger of meteors; astronomers are pretty certain there are very
many contraterrene meteors. How about the danger from those! •
Illustrated by Orban
A young man spoke the scornful words — he
was Kurt von Sudenhort, the blond, ray-burned
Martian-German subaltern, in command of the
small base of the High Space Guard on the tiny
asteroid’s polar plateau. Strutting down the quiet
old street, he was loud with a young man’s arro-
gance.
“Excitement, you say?” Hard heels clacked
impatiently on the worn sidewalk, as he kept step
with another trim young officer in black. “Ex-
COLLISION ORBIT
81
citement — in a one-street ghost town, on a pint-
size planet?” He used careful English idioms, in
a harsh metal voice. “You can walk around
Obania in an hour — and all you will find are a
few fossil asterites, petrified alive since the
Treaty of Space.”
Contemptuously, he jerked his close-clipped
military head at a sign they passed. Above an
open first-floor window, in the tall false front of
a rusted old sheet-metal building, faded letters
glowed with pale luminescence:
Drake & McGee
Spatial Engineers
“Spatial engineers, so?” echoed the young com-
mander, scornfully. “You will meet those two
old birds, sipping their bitter tea and gabbing
about the days before the war and dreaming their
crazy dreams — extinct as the archaeopteryx.”
The heels rapped on dewn the single sleepy
street, squeezed between the black barren cliffs.
The young subaltern’s voice receded, in the direc-
tion of a place that helped bored men endure the
stagnation of Obania — the ancient Meteor Palace
Bar.
“Excitement, nein!” He seldom used a Ger-
man word. “Nothing ever happens on Obania.”
The hard young voices faded, but one old man
had overheard. Beyond the open window, old
Jim Drake was sprawled at his battered desk.
Once he had been as mighty as his bronze-haired
son, and he was still a blue-eyed giant who
seemed too big for the shabby little office. But
sixty years had bent his powerful shoulders, and
his once-red hair was thin and roan. His big
stiff fingers were cramped on a pencil, drawing
plans for the magnetic tongs and bed plates and
relays. — that other men called a crazy dream.
The loud passing voices stopped old Drake’s
work. A tired, awkward giant, in a shabby gray
coat and rough miner’s boots, he looked out the
window with hollow blue eyes. It was true.
The Treaty of Space had ended the world — the
frontier world that he and his kind had wrested
from the cold eternal night. He didn’t fit into
the new bureaucratic order, enforced by the High
Space Mandate. Neither did his pioneer friends.
It was true that nothing important had happened
on Obania for twenty years — not since the war
ended, in 2171.
But a slow brown smile softened old Jim Drake’s
rugged, space-burned face, and the old, eager light
came slowly back to his eyes. He took up the
pencil again, with stiff brown fingers that seemed
too big for a pencil. His mind returned to the
machines he planned to build.
A sense of urgency drove Drake on. The task
was vast for any man, and his time was running
out. Once he had hoped that Rick would come
back to help — for Rick was big enough for any
task. But Rick had taken a job with Interplanet.
The task was left for old Jim Drake, and he had no
time to waste.
After four decades of effort, he was used to
scornful voices. His dream was mighty enough
to make any man a giant, and he was too big to
mind a little laughter. He had even patiently
accepted a nickname first used in mockery. He
let men call him Seetee Drake.
For “seetee,” to the engineer’s mind of old Jim
Drake, meant power. Terror to others, to him
it was atomic energy, priceless and illimitable.
The whole meteor belt was rich in contraterrene
drift; matter inside out, with electrons and posi-
trons in reverse positions. It was the dangerous
debris of that terrific cataclysm, before the time
of man, when a strange stellar wanderer of con-
traterrene matter shattered the trans-Martian
planet. When it touched common matter, the
result was a spectacular blaze of gamma radiation ;
and mutual annihilation — unlike forms of matter
canceled out, to leave free neutrons and pure
energy. In the words of the ordinary spaceman,
it was simply hell in chunks. But old Jim Drake
dreamed of something else — he was designing
machines to turn that frightful energy to serve
the needs of men.
He was an engineer, not a politician — he mis-
trusted politicians. Yet he had seen that atomic
power meant political power. The past had tested
that historic equation. For a hundred years and
longer, the monopoly of uranium power hqd made
Interplanet Corp. the master of all the planets.
Even the war, when all the colonies except the
Moon broke free, had merely shaken that old
power.
Not a politician, Drake still could see that his
success would balance the scales again. It would
end the selfish and arbitrary oppression of the
Mandate commissioners — the High Space Man-
date was a device set up by the treaty of peace, to
parcel the riches of the asteroids among the major
planets.
But success was far away. One politician — his
pioneer friend, old Bruce O’Banion, now twenty
years out of politics — had often reminded him of
the great obstacle. He had no laboratory — nor any
site for one. For a contraterrene laboratory, there
was a singular requirement: it had to be situated
beyond the last trace of atmosphere. Molecules
of any gas reacted with seetee, in deadly flame.
Of course there were millions of airless asteroids,
but the Mandate held title to them all, since the
war. The commissioners knew that their proper
function was to discourage every sort of enter-
prise, among the native asterites.
The dream was all on paper.
82
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Today, despite the young commander’s scornful
plaint, a stir of excitement came to Obania. A
few minutes after von Sudenhorst had passed,
Ann O’Banion burst into old Jim Drake’s small
ruffty office.
“Seetee!” She was breathless, her gray eyes
shining. “Guess what?”
Drake pushed away his papers, with awkward
space-burned hands. Obania was a forgotten little
world, since the war; a world of old and futile
men. Ann O’Banion was almost the only young
person left, except the strutting guardsmen at the
base. His tired face smiled to see her slim and
vital youth.
Ann was the dark-haired daughter of stout,
ruddy old Bruce O’Banion. He had been the
original claimant of Obania, forty years ago; and
Drake was the young spatial engineer he em-
ployed to terraform the little rock, only two
kilometers through — by sinking a shaft to its heart
for the paragravity installation, generating oxygen
and water from mineral oxides, releasing absorp-
tive gases to trap the feeble heat of the far-off
Sun.
The times had changed, Drake thought wist-
fully. Before the war, Bruce O’Banion had been
a wealthy and important figure, the natural politi-
cal leader of the rugged little democracy he had
helped to plant on this far frontier against the
stars. But now the old assembly hall, where the
pioneers had gathered for their simple govern-
ment, was an Interplanet warehouse. Von Suden-
horst ruled Obania, by military decree. The mines
were closed, because O’Banion refused to sell out
to one of the great planet monopolies. All but
ruined, the old statesman clung to the empty shell
of his past — as he did to the empty, old-fashioned
magnificence of his mansion at the south pole of
Obania, opposite the busy Guard base.
Ann O’Banion had stayed to keep her father’s
house, while most young people left to take good
jobs with Interplanet and the other corporations.
But Drake knew that she hoped brightly for the
future. He even suspected that she was a secret
supporter of the Free Space Party — that stubborn
little group, now outlawed by the commissioners,
who still fought to keep alive the forbidden ideal
of independence.
“No, I couldn’t guess.” He saw the excited
flush under the space tan on her cheeks. “Unless
maybe the subaltern has proposed?”
He knew that Ann was much admired by the
bored young men at the base. Once he had hoped
that Rick would come back to Obania — they were
the same pioneer stock, and he thought they would
make a fortunate couple. But that was another
old man’s dream. Rick hadn’t been on Obania
since he was ten years old. And Drake had not
tried to persuade him — let the boy make his own
life.
“He has.” Ann’s intense brown face made a
pleasant little grimace. “But I don’t like Mar-
tians.” She caught her breath. “No, Seetee — this
is lots more exciting. I was just up at the base,
to take a pie to Cap’n Rob. And he says there’s
a seetee blinker, near. It’s a swarm beacon —
there’s danger we’ll strike a fire storm!”
If there was danger, Ann O’Banion didn’t seem
appalled by it. Her bright animation might easily
have been mistaken for joy. She was a native
asterite, accustomed to the annihilating threat
of contraterrene matter. Like the young men at
the base, she was thirsty for something new.
Yet the danger, Drake realized instantly, might
be serious. While all the Sun’s vast family of
asteroids, seetee and terrene alike, circled in the
same direction, the orbits of the contraterrene
drift were often highly eccentric. Glancing colli-
sions were not uncommon.
The seetee blinker was Drake’s own invention,
made many years ago. It was a necessary task
of the Guard to mark the contraterrene bodies,
whenever they were identified, so that ships and
miners might avoid them — yet no man, or work
of man, could touch them unconsumed. Young
Jim Drake had solved the problem.
The blinker was a spiderlike frame of meteoric
iron, set to circle in a narrow planetary orbit
about the body to be marked. The whirling arms
carried mirrors of sodium foil, tilted to reflect the
Sun’s rays through colored filters in a sequence
of warning flashes. The signals were listed, with
data on the objects marked, in the “Ephemeris
and Register.” The oldest beacons had been spin-
ning for nearly forty years, perfect machines, re-
quiring neither fuel nor attention.
A few contraterrene bodies were many kilo-
meters in diameter. Smaller boulders were far
more numerous, however, and there were occa-
sional clouds of contraterrene dust — formed no
doubt when larger bodies were blown almost liter-
ally to atoms by the insane violence of explosions
following collision with common terrene matter.
Such particles had caused the dazzling display
of meteor showers in Earth’s atmosphere. When
they hailed against a ship or an asteroid, the flame
of atomic destruction was, not surprisingly, called
a fire storm.
Fire storms, Drake knew, could be deadly.
“Cap’n Rob’s in the pilothouse of the Good-by
Jane.” Ann’s voice was clear and eager. "He’s
keeping an eye on the blinker — he wouldn’t even
stop to eat the pie I brought him. He said you
would want to know about it.”
Rob McGee was Drake’s partner; a short, space-
beaten man, with gentle voice and shy, kindly
smile. His invincible calm he seemed to have
learned from the stars he knew so well. Rob was
short for Robot — an allusion to his almost un-
COLLISION ORBIT
83
canny mathematical perception. With one glance
of his deeply squinted red-brown eyes, Rob McGee
could give the position and velocity of a meteor
a thousand kilometers away — exactly.
Times had changed, even for Rob McGee. Al-
though keenly aware of his lack of formal educa-
tion, he had been a famous and successful pilot,
before the war. He had bought the Good-by Jane
out of his own savings, with only a little aid from
Drake, and built up a good salvage and towing
business. But now, since the war, only the great
monopolies could afford to buy salvage and tow-
ing permits from the Mandate government. There
were no more jobs for independent spatial en-
gineers. Rick had offered McGee a pilot’s berth
with Interplanet. But the quiet little asterite had
a stubborn independence, and he believed in
Drake’s magnificent dream. He was waiting for
better times to come — living aboard the little
space tug to save the cost of lodgings.
“Yes, I’m glad to know about the blinker.”
Drake felt a consuming interest in everything
about seetee. So little was known of its dangerous
riddles! Difficult to study a thing you could never
touch, not even with any tool. But some random
observation might yield the vital clue, toward a
method of safe control. “I’ll go right over.”
Jim Drake surged to his feet; an awkward, aged
giant — but eager now, his deep-sunken eyes elec-
tric with new-kindled hope. He swept up his
papers, with space-burned hands too big for paper
work, and locked them in the rusty safe that he
and Rob McGee had bought before the war.
“Let me take you,” Ann offered quickly. She
drove a battered little electric car, that she had
stripped down from an impressive machine her
father had imported before she was born; and
she kept it repaired herself.
The seat was too small for Drake, but he
squeezed in beside her, awkwardly. She turned
the car in the middle of the deserted, straggling
street of rust-streaked buildings — imported wood
was precious on the asteroids; the houses were
metal and glass, paintless and neglected since the
war.
The car spun along the old gravel road toward
the Guard base on the polar plateau. Obania was
closer to the sphere than most asteroids — with
natural gravity far too weak to round them, they
could be any shape at all — but the iron-walled
canyon that sheltered the town would have been
a thousand-kilometer chasm in the Earth.
Obania’s horizon was always absurdly near, pre-
cipitous. Every elevation seemed a lonely peak,
jutting insecurely into the blue-black sky. The
Earthman’s instinctive dread of falling off must
have made the pioneers locate their town under
the comforting cliffs — though Bruce O’Banion,
AST— 6G
characteristically, had set his mansion on the
highest peak of all.
The rusting town stood across the equator. A
kilometer north, the road dropped abruptly, so
it seemed, toward the plateau. Before the war
this had been a free port, busy with ore barges,
tugs and traders. Now there was little traffic,
except for supply vessels and the warships sta-
tioned at the base.
But here was new paint, efficiency, youth. A
great six-sided building, at the center of the field,
housed offices, shops, supply depot, and Guard
headquarters. From its center, on the polar axis
of the planetoid, lifted the steel-ribbed dome of
the control tower, photophone transmitter-light
flickering above it. From a pole beside the build-
ing hung the limp Mandate flag — a black circle
upon the quartered colors of the major planets,
the crescent-and-stripes of the Earth-Moon Union,
the golden dragon of Venus, the red-black-and-
yellow of the Martian Reich, the hammer-and-
sickle of Jupiter’s moons. Young men in fatigue
uniforms were spraying black camouflage paint on
the tall, leanly tapered hull of a Guard cruiser.
Unpainted, the square nose of the Good-by Jane
was visible across the steeply convex field, at the
end of a row of rusting ore barges. The space
tug was somewhat larger than a twentieth-century
railroad box car turned on end and stripped of
wheels. The angular, neglected hull, pocked with
meteor blisters stood five decks high. With only
a few instruments protruding, it looked very much
like a rectangular ingot of rust-reddened steel.
Ann O’Banion swung the little roadster to a
skillful stop against a freshly black-and-yellow-
painted railing. The sentry beneath the flag rec-
ognized her, with an admiring grin. Drake was
extricating himself from the too-small seat, with
an awkward, anxious haste — when something hap-
pened. A sudden seam of hot blue fire split the
frigid blue-black sky.
II.
Instinctively, old Jim Drake moved his long,
gaunt frame to shelter the girl. He waited for the
shocking impact, the shattering blast and the
searing blaze of a seetee explosion. But that
didn’t follow.
The tiny world was breathless. He heard only
the frightened shouts of the painters slung high
against the cruiser’s hull — high-pitched and re-
mote, in the thin air of Obania. Soon his blinded
eyes could see again. Dim stars came back into
the somber sky ahead, and the low Sun behind
burned small and hot and blue.
Ann O’Banion smiled, unfrightened, asking,
“What was that?”
All the phenomena of space were real and im-
mediate, to the native asterite, as they had never
been to his Earth-born forebears. Even a terra-
84
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
formed planetoid, such as Obania, had no safe
hundreds of kilometers of insulating atmosphere,
but only a thin gaseous envelope. Meteors fall-
ing here were something more than mysterious
streaks of distant fire; here they were grim dice
of life and death.
“I don’t know what it was.” Drake started
across the field’s level convexity. “That flash had
the color of a seetee explosion, but nothing hit
Obania. Out at space, I guess. Maybe Rob will
know.”
Ann had to run to keep up with his gigantic
strides. Panting, her nostrils felt the dry sting
of ozone — a gaseous armor, against too much ultra-
violet. Above the rusty ground gear of the Good-
by Jane, the air lock stood open. Drake sent a
booming hail up the ladder well inside, and Ann
followed him up to the pilothouse.
A sturdy, utilitarian craft, the tug had no broad
and dangerous ports. The low walls and bulging
roof of the tiny pilothouse, lined with spongy gray
plastic, were cut only with thin tubes for the in-
struments. Beside the dial -topped case of the
pilot-robot, Captain Rob McGee pulled his square
leather face out of a black periscope hood, and
looked at them with mild, squinted eyes. His
shoulders were broad in an ancient space coat
of mildewed green. He had a rather large head,
with a thick mat of yellow hair ; very little neck ;
and inconsequential legs. Altogether, he was as
sturdy, ready and ugly as his ship.
“Did you see, Cap’n Rob?” The girl was breath-
less. “That terrible flash — what was it?”
With the frontiersman’s awkward native cour-
tesy, Drake pushed toward her the only seat in
the little gray room, the astrogator’s stool. But
she was far too excited to sit.
“Was it seetee?” she demanded.
Deliberate as always, the short, space-beaten
little captain was tamping an ancient pipe with
Earth-grown tobacco, his one luxury. Sometimes
it seemed to Drake that he had learned the time-
less calm of the stars — when he was too calm,
however, it usually meant danger.
“I happened to be looking.” His voice was
very gentle. “I was watching that blinker, when
an asteroid came into the periscope field.”
“Eh?” Drake made a muted sound of astonish-
ment. “What asteroid?”
“I got the orbit, and looked it up in the ‘Ephem-
eris.’ ” McGee was still unhurried. “Number
T-89-AK-44. Listed as unnamed, undeveloped, un-
claimed. Diameter nine hundred meters. Density
and albedo indicate nickel-iron.”
Impatience overcame Ann. “But what hap-
pened?”
“A piece of seetee collided with the asteroid.”
McGee smiled at her excitement. “Probably the
one that had the blinker, because that has gone
out. Quite a smash.” Still his voice was softly
unemphatic. “The safety shutter tripped, in the
periscope, and saved my eyes.”
Old Jim Drake took a quick step forward, in
that tiny crowded room. He had known McGee
for nearly forty years, and he could see through
that calm restraint.
“Tell us, Rob!”
Rob McGee held a lighter to his pipe. He
could be quick when speed was needed, but he
had never learned the frantic hurry of men in
cities. Sometimes his lack of haste was almost
maddening.
“Quite a smash,” he repeated. “Couple thou-
sand tons of seetee, dropping toward the Sun on
the usual crazy orbit. It must have burned a pit
a hundred meters deep in the asteroid, before it
was used up. Vaporized a lot of iron. Made a
sort of natural rooket.”
“What will happen now?” Ann burst out again.
“Is the fire storm coming to Obania?”
“Obania will miss the dust,” the little man said
softly. “What’s coming is the asteroid. The im-
pact and reaction of that first collision was just
enough to push it into a new collision orbit. Now
it’s coming toward Obania.”
Ann uttered a startled little “oh,” and her gray
eyes looked anxiously from McGee to old Jim
Drake. With an awkward haste, stooped because
he was too tall for that low gray room, Drake
went to the periscope. McGee drew slowly on
his pipe.
In the dark field of the instrument, the asteroid
COLLISION ORBIT
85
was only a tiny mote. Swinging back again, to
question McGee, Drake saw that Ann looked tense
and pale. He knew that she must be picturing
the collision — grinding ruin, dust and flame; a
billion tons of hard nickel-iron crashing into
Obania.
“You don’t have to put on your dead-pan for
me, Cap’n Rob.” Her voice was tight. “Of course,
Obania’s home — it’s all I know. But I can take it.
Don’t try to shield me.” Her anxious fingers
caught his arm. “When will it strike? Do we
have time to do anything about it?”
With his dark leather smile, McGee nodded at
Drake.
“Jim’s the engineer,” McGee said softly. “I
only had a glimpse. I haven’t touched the cal-
culator. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Don’t, Rob.” Ann’s impatience was almost
anger. “Vou know a glance is all you need. You
never touch the calculator. I don’t think you’re
ever wrong.”
“Give us the data, Rob,” the patient giant said
humbly. Drake had seen McGee study the hands
of a chronometer for a few moments, with those
mild, squinted eyes, and then tell how many sec-
onds it would gain or lose in a day — exactly. For
himself, he needed no chronometer. Perhaps he
was no different from many another mathematical
prodigy; but sometimes Drake felt that evolution
had created a new sense in him, adapted to fit the
harsh and sudden needs of life upon these hur-
tling bits of iron and stone. Drake had learned
to trust that sense.
“Naturally I wanted to see for myself, Rob,”
he added, in apology. “But you know it would
take me hours of observation and computation to
check a collision orbit. That rock must be half a
million kilometers away.”
“Nearly a million.” McGee ignored the tone
of apology, with his usual blindness to the puz-
zling, nonmathematical world of human emotions.
“To be exact, nine hundred seventy-one thousand
five hundred eighty kilometers. The time of im-
pact is forty-one days, seven hours and twelve
minutes — from the moment I looked.”
Drake’s haggard roan head nodded slowly. He
didn’t question the figures. Astronomical magni-
tudes and relations were as clearly self-evident to
McGee as the sum of four apples to the Earth-
born.
“Forty-one days?” exclaimed Ann O’Banion.
“That’s not long!” Her tanned face was anxious.
“Can we move Obania out of the way?”
McGee shook his straw-colored thatch.
“No time for that, I’m afraid. The peegee in-
stallation is old-type, you know — nondirectional.
Obania’s too large to move with tugs — its weight
in tons would surprise you.” He laid down his
pipe. “No, the other’s the one to move.”
With the white pinch of apprehension on her
freckled nose, Ann looked quickly at old Jim
Drake. Something had frozen him into a deaf
gigantic statue of bronze.
“Smaller,” McGee explained softly. “Less than
a tenth the mass. There’s plenty of time to land
a terraforming crew, to install a new-type direc-
tional drive. It’s a job for the Guard.” His
square face furrowed into a leather grin. “Give
von Sudenhorst a chance to burn some of that
new paint off his ships, in the fire storm.”
Ann O’Banion stopped biting her pale lip.
“I’d better call the base?” McGee looked at
the motionless giant, with some question in his
squinted eyes. “Probably they wouldn’t find out
about the collision orbit for some time yet. And
I’m afraid that seetee drift will make it a ticklish
job, even for our dashing young subaltern. He’ll
need all the time there is.”
He reached for the photophone receiver — out
along the spatial frontiers, where there was no
atmosphere to carry sound or to distort and ab-
sorb a beam of modulated light, the photophone
was almost the universal means of communication,
from ship to ship and rock to rock.
But Jim Drake stopped him.
“Wait!” The haggard giant moved suddenly,
so that his lifted roan head almost struck the low
gray roof. Under bushy reddish brows, his deep-
set eyes turned electric blue. A sudden driving
voice of purpose quivered in his voice. “We’ 11
move that rock.”
“We?” McGee stepped back on nimble feet,
astonished. “How can we?”
Drake’s voice was booming now, no longer
weary.
“We need a site for the seetee lab — and that
rock is it.”
“If we could!” whispered Ann. “But — how?”
“I just remember a law,” the patient giant ex-
plained. “A perfectly good law, on the books of
the Mandate. In case of imminent collision, when
an unclaimed asteroid threatens an improved one,
any property holder on the improved asteroid can
take the necessary steps to avert collision, and
claim the asteroid in recompense.”
Drake’s rugged bronze face looked almost
young.
“A few formalities, of course. It’s necessary to
file notice of intention, at Pallasport, with data
to establish the collision orbit. You’re required
to show proof of ability to avert the collision,
unless you have already averted it, thirty days
before the predicted impact — otherwise the
Guard will take over.” Muffled, his deep voice
came back from the periscope hood. “But that’s
our lab.”
McGee shook his large ugly head. “Maybe.”
86
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
III.
Half an hour later, old Jim Drake was in the
big, rhodium-paneled library of Bruce O’Banion’s
tarnished metal mansion. Ann’s housekeeping
had the long room immaculately clean, but even
the glowing electric grate failed to banish a sense
of empty chill. Beside precious shelves of faded
books, a huge window gave a giddy view of the
bare black hill slope tumbling sharply down into
the blacker gulf of star-shot space. Drake had
come, still intense with purpose, to put his idea up
to Bruce O’Banion.
Ann was brewing tea — the common drink of the
asterites, perhaps because it had served so often
to cover the staleness of synthetic water in rusting
tanks. She made a graceful hostess, slim in a
bright print dress, pouring the tea in small, fragile
cups her mother had brought from Earth.
But Drake had no time for tea. Pacing the
thin-worn rug, he fought O’Banion’s stubborn
skepticism. “We’ve got to have you with us,
Bruce. Rob and I have no property here. If we
claim this rock, we’ll have to do it in your name.”
Bruce O’Banion sat in his favorite chair — almost
a throne, hammered out of dull massive copper,
it stood where he could look down through that
vast window, down beyond that sheer precipice of
iron, into the black and splendid gulf of space.
O'Banion was a heavy man, red-faced, thick-
jowled, big-featured, with a white impressive
mane. He wore an old blue-and-silver uniform,
altered to fit his paunch, and the Iron Cross the
Martians had given him for the part the little
asterite fleet had played in the space blockade of
Earth. But men no longer called him commo-
dore. He had lost much, since the war — wealth,
prestige, his faithful wife. The drag of his heavy
lips showed bitterness. Gray like Ann’s, his eyes
were a little bloodshot — sometimes he drank too
much.
But he was sober, now. He followed the strid-
ing awkward giant, with his heavy statesman’s
head. Drake could feel his skepticism, like a
stubborn inertia. O’Banion had the shrewd practi-
cal sense of the self-made man — and the smug self-
confidence, too. Like most veteran spacemen, he
knew that contraterrene matter was hell in chunks.
“If you had uranium on that rock, I’d say yes.”
The bitterness was dull in his voice. “The com-
missioners might let you get away with a claim.
Interplanet might even pay you a tenth what the
claim was worth.”
Drake protested patiently, “But it’s just the
site we need, for the seetee lab.”
“Seetee lab!” O’Banion snorted. “You’re the
biggest fool in the Mandate, Jim — I’ve told you
so a thousand times. Listen — suppose you had
your seetee lab, all nice and shiny. Suppose you
had a pretty little seetee pebble — caught nice and
safe in some kind of imaginary tongs that wouldn’t
explode into neutrons and gamma rays the instant
they touched it.”
He paused, with an orator’s effort for drama.
“What would you do with it?”
Patiently, still, Drake launched into the bound-
less possibilities of conquered contraterrene mat-
ter. The years of failure had dropped away; his
voice was quick and strong.
“There’s nothing mysterious about seetee. It’s
composed of the same three fundamental parti-
cles as our common terrene matter : electrons,
positrons, neutrons. The only difference is the
way they are arranged. Instead of orbital elec-
trons, the seetee atom has orbital positrons. In-
stead of binding electrons, in the nucleus, it has
binding positrons. Instead of nuclear protons,
each formed of a neutron-positron couple, it has
nuclear negatrons — neutron-electron couples.
“The only difference is that the electric signs
of the charged particles are all reversed. Contra-
terrene atoms form the same series of elements as
terrene atoms. They obey identical laws of chem-
istry and physics. If you had been born on a
seetee planet — like the one that smashed into our
system, maybe a million years ago, to form the
seetee drift — you would never know the difference.
The only test is contact.”
O’Banion’s broad red face remained a heavy
mask of doubt. Drake strode up to him, across
the clean faded rug, his voice throbbing deep
with the awakened power of his dream.
“What can you do with it?” he echoed the
question. “You can make seetee tools, to work
seetee. When you have a complete machine shop
— on some airless asteroid like this one — you can
do anything.”
Drake’s lean space-burned finger stabbed the
air.
“You can feed it into a power generator. Seetee
will yield thousands of times the power of
uranium — because the atomic breakdown is far
more complete, and because native uranium is only
one part in two hundred U-235 to begin with.
Any kind of seetee will react with any kind of
terrene matter. You won’t need any complicated
separators.”
Drake leaned over him, gigantic.
“You can machine it into rods, for welding
terrene matter. You can use a jet of seetee gas,
even seetee nitrogen, for a cutting torch — that
would be a handy gadget, when you have to cut a
shaft to the heart of a nickel-iron rock, to terra-
form it. A million possible uses!"
Massive and inert in the huge copper chair,
O’Banion shrugged with ponderous skepticism.
“I’ve heard all that before, Jim — and I still think
you’re crazy. Maybe you can work seetee with
seetee tools — but how are you going to make them,
COLLISION ORBIT
87
without seetee tools to begin with?”
He gave Drake no time to answer.
“Suppose you had your seetee machine sfiop, all
set up on magical foundations and oiled with
seetee oil and running on power from a seetee
plant — and then you had the bad luck to stumble
against a lever? Your own body would blow the
whole works to hell!”
The awkward, anxious giant kept the patience
in his voice. That iron skepticism was an old
familiar barrier, that he had never learned to
overcome. But he tried to be convincing.
“I know it’s difficult — dangerous,” he admitted.
“That’s why it hasn’t been done before. But you
can move seetee without touching it — with as
simple a thing as a magnet. Once the machine
shop is built, it can be run by remote control.
With time and effort, Bruce, every problem can
be solved.”
For all Drake’s awkward urgency, O’Banion
remained a heavy bulk of unyielding doubt. Drake
stepped a little back and dropped his shrunken
ray-burned hands. His deep voice grimly lower,
he tried another argument.
“There’s one more use for seetee, Bruce — though
it’s one I don’t like to think of. If you had
another war to fight, you could make seetee into
demolition bombs. I imagine that even an operat-
ing machine shop and power plant would be an
economic weapon strong enough to set us free of
the Mandate, without much actual fighting.”
O’Banion sat up in the big red metal chair, with
a dim gleam of hope in his bleary eyes. He had
helped to organize the vigorous war effort of the
asterites — whose men and metal had contributed
a good deal to the victory. As Commodore
O’Banion, he had thought he was fighting for a
free High Space Union. Like his fellow pioneers,
he felt that the Mandate arrangement was a heart-
less betrayal, by the allied planets.
“I used to hope.” He shook his white, leonine
head, bitterly. “You both know that I supported
the Free Space Party — until the commissioners
began arresting the leaders. But it’s no use. If
you did manage to build your seetee machine shop,
they would find a way to take it from you — or
blow it up with a terrene bomb and build another
for themselves.” He shrugged, in the sagging uni-
form. “A handful of us can’t defeat four united
planets, Jim.”
That might be true, Drake knew — but, to him,
it didn’t really matter. He was not a politician.
His primary enemy was not the organized and
ruthless human selfishness that the Mandate rep-
resented — it was contraterrene matter, with its
danger-guarded prize of human usefulness. Once
conquered, the benefit would descend to all man-
kind.
Paragravity was the triumph of another en-
gineer, but it illustrated the same process. Cer-
tainly it had been the tool of politicians; the
Interplanet shareholders had used it to make
themselves the ruling aristocracy of an inter-
planetary empire. But the larger benefits, he
thought, had more than balanced that. Para-
gravity had burst the prison of a million years,
to set men free of Earth.
Not even an engineer could foresee all the con-
sequences of his work — for either good or harm.
Maxim-Gore, when he discovered paragravity, was
merely seeking a selective force to extract the
power isotope from native uranium. The force-
fields of Sunspots, hurling out jets of flaming
hydrogen for hundreds of thousands of kilometers
against solar gravitation, gave him the clue to
paragravity — a force existing in the unexplored
region between the phenomena of magnetism and
gravitation, and sharing some of the character-
istics of each.
Maxim-Gore felt completely triumphant, Drake
supposed, when he discovered that the peegee
effect could be tuned to separate the atoms of
U-235 from molten uranium. He had found some-
thing better than the vapor-centrifuge. But the
directional space drive; the negative safety field,
to guard a ship’s hull from spatial drift; the
peegee reducer, that broke up compounds by direct
selective attraction, yielding oxygen to breathe and
iron for construction out of common hematite ; the
peegee terraforming unit, that held man and his
precious blanket of air to any tiny rock — those
88
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
were all unexpected gifts, amazing even the en-
gineer.
“It won’t hurt you, Bruce, to let me try.” Ur-
gently, Drake sought to use the tiny advantage he
had gained. “There’s not often an opportunity
for anybody to claim an asteroid, under the laws
of the Mandate — anybody except the corporations.
This may be the last chance I’ll ever have.”
The lines in Drake’s brown face bit deep again ;
for a moment his hollow eyes were tired. The
conquest of seetee had been a long race with
time, and time was winning out. But he lifted
his gaunt shoulders, in the worn gray coat, and
launched another argument.
“Interplanet has a big engineering staff, with
millions to spend.” His patient voice held no
bitterness. “I know, because Rick is working for
them — under a contract to sign over his patents
for a dollar each. Mars and Venus and the Jovians
have plenty of engineers. Some of them are
bound to be working on seetee — because it’s the
biggest thing in sight. Suppose one of them beats
us out?”
Drake gestured, with a gaunt, arresting arm.
“Suppose the Martian Reich wins out? The
Germans are good engineers and better strategists
— and their victories in the revolution gave them
ambitious ideas. They wanted to carry on the
war, remember, to total victory. Venus and the
Jovians let Earth into the Mandate, just to hold
them down. But suppose they had seetee, now?”
O’Banion nodded his white impressive head.
“That would be unfortunate.” He seemed half
convinced. “But it isn’t true that we can try this
without risk, Jim. Perhaps we haven’t much left
— but we do have our lives. How far do you
think the commissioners will let you go, with a
project that threatens the Mandate? Don’t you
realize that they can decree that seetee research
is treason — and order all of us shot?”
“I do.” Drake’s hollow eyes were sober. “But
people have called me a fool for forty years,” he
argued. “The commissioners aren’t going to take
me seriously, all at once. We don’t have to tell
everything we’re doing. We can call it a metal-
lurgy lab, and apply for patents on a few alloys —
not that the commissioners ever grant a patent to
an asterite. Seetee will keep till we need it, for
a political surprise.”
“I don’t know.” O’Banion was doubtful.
“Plenty of native asterites have said out to the
Mandate. That’s why I dropped the Free Space
Party — there’s nobody you can trust. And you
know that the Guard keeps a pretty close watch
on all of us.”
“We’ll have to solve those problems when they
come up.” Drake’s big roan head lifted confi-
dently. “Now let’s get back to this rock. Are
we going to take it for a lab — or give up every-
thing, and report it to the Guard?”
O’Banion rose from the copper chair.
“You win, Jim.” He smiled — a politician’s bland
and willing smile. “I’m willing to take the chance
that your attempt will keep the Guard from
averting the collision in time. I’ll sign the papers,
to make you and McGee my agents.”
“Thanks, Bruce.” Drake extended his brown,
gigantic hand. “The rock is ours!”
But O’Banion stepped back, with a heavy ges-
ture. The flowing white hair and dense black
brows made him a commanding figure. Standing
by the thronelike seat, against the giddy gulf of
space, he struck an orator’s pose.
“You have my permission, Jim.” His voice was
rich with an orator’s eloquence. “But now, before
we settle any conclusions, let’s look at the difficul-
ties from your point of view.”
Drake’s hollow eyes went dark with disappoint-
ment. Defeat bit into his space-burned cheeks.
He remembered that O’Banion had been a politi-
cian, and he had never learned to deal with
politicians.
“First, there is the question of time.” O'Banion
spoke in a ringing public voice, as if that empty
metal room had held a hundred men. “You have
just eleven days to file notice and show proof.
The Guard isn’t likely to be satisfied with any
mere proof of ability — you’ll have to show the
orbit already changed. That’s mighty little time —
and they won’t give you a second more.”
“Time enough,” Drake said. “If we get busy.”
“Second, there’s the question of money.”
O’Banion still addressed an imaginary multitude.
“Money will be required, for your filing fees,
labor, equipment and fuel-uranium. Unfortu-
nately, I am . . . er . . . frankly, all but bankrupt.
Have you and McGee any money?”
Drake paused on the threadbare rug, his con-
fident stride interrupted.
“No,” he admitted awkwardly. “It’s true we
had hoped to borrow from you, Bruce — on the
Good-by Jane. This job shouldn’t cost so much —
including five thousand for the peegee unit, a
fair estimate would be nine thousand Mandate dol-
lars.” His big hands clenched helplessly. “I don’t
know where we can get even that.”
Ann O’Banion slipped out of her chair, beside
the neglected tea urn. Her tanned hand lifted
quickly to her throat. Something held her for a
breathless moment before she made a decisive
little toss of her dark, lustrous hair.
“I have money, Seetee.” Her voice was low,
vibrant. “Nearly ten thousand dollars — mother
left it to me, to spend a year on Earth.” The
bright voice seemed to catch, but she smiled. “I
want you to use it.”
“I couldn’t," Drake protested. “I know how
you’ve been planning on that trip.” His roan head
COLLISION ORBIT
89
shook wearily. “After all, things might go
wrong.”
“Please.” The lightness was back in her voice.
“Don’t you believe in your own proposition?
You’ve sold me. Can’t I buy a share in your lab?”
“Thanks, Ann.” The giant grew tall again.
“We won’t fail.”
O’Banion turned heavily. “Daughter, have you
considered — ”
“The money’s mine, dad,” she said quietly.
“That’s what I want to do with it.” She made a
malicious little smile. “Unless you can persuade
Seetee to give the whole thing up.”
O’Banion gulped and tried to recover his
oratorical stance.
“Jim, I was begging you to reconsider the diffi-
culties of your project.” His tone was somewhat
chastened. “Besides the matters of time and
money — and the unfriendly attitude of the govern-
ment — I want you to think of the danger.
“I understand that the asteroid is crossing a
drift area. That first collision doubtless made a
lot more dust — and there’s no blinker, now, to
mark it. Maybe you know a lot more about seetee
than anybody else. But even you are not immune
to gamma burns.”
Ann saw the pain of memory on his face, and
flashed her father a look of silent protest. But
Drake’s time-bent shoulders shrugged, with the
same weary patience.
“That’s just a chance we’ve got to take.”
Yielding to his daughter’s glance, O’Banion
bowed his leonine head. “Then go on.” He of-
fered his hand. “I think you are both reckless
fools, but I’ll say no more. What are your plans?”
“We have drilling machinery.” Drake’s voice
went deep with relief. “Old, but it will have to
do. We’ll round up a crew, and go straight to
the rock. I’ll start drilling, while McGee goes
on to Pallasport to buy the peegee unit. He can
file the notice of intention, before he leaves. Pallas
is only eighteen million kilometers, now — lucky
it’s so close. He should be back with the unit
in six or seven days. We should have it installed
and working, with any luck at all, two or three
days before the limit. But I must be moving.”
He strode toward the door, purpose once more
a lifting, driving force within his gaunt and awk-
ward frame. Ann ran after him, calling eagerly:
“Wait, Seetee! Have you a name for it — our
new planet?” Drake’s brain was already full of
engineering problems — questions of meters a day,
in hard nickel-iron; of liters of expensive water
for the drill, and kilograms of precious fuel-
uranium; of paragravity thrust, against some five
billion tons of mass. His roan head shook vaguely,
and Ann cried: “Then I have. Its destiny is to
liberate us all from the Mandate. Let’s call it
Freedonia!”
Drake nodded absently. He liked the name, but
his mind was full of more important things. The
problem of averting the collision seemed suddenly
overwhelming, now that he was face to face with
it. Hastening toward the door, he stumbled awk-
wardly on his bad left knee. The old gamma
burn seemed to cause more frequent twinges, now,
than it had for many years. The needle stab of
burning pain made him conscious of the burden
of his age.
ilV.
The frosty black of space struck Drake with a
cold impact, when he limped out between the
tarnished chromium veranda columns that O’Ban-
ion had set up nearly forty years ago. The bleak
landscape tumbled dizzily out of sight, so that
the world of open space loomed shockingly near —
a hostile world, never meant for men.
Drake regarded that spatial world with emo-
tions as complex as its own changing aspects of
dark danger and glittering promise. He knew it
well. Perhaps he even loved its stark, illimitable
freedom, for the safety of any conquered planet
was apt to become a weary prison to him. Yet
long familiarity had filled its empty gulf with a
thousand conditions of invincible hostility. He
seldom feared it, but he had learned a deep and
patient respect for the laws of its foreign, inexora-
ble nature. After all the triumphs of the spatial
engineers, the void’s dark and splendid face still
leered with the endless threats of sucking vacuum,
probing cold, burning radiation, deadly meteor-
drift.
Suddenly, Drake felt too old to meet those
familiar and ruthless enemies alone. He wanted
to call his son — tall, bronzed Rick Drake, with all
the youthful strength that he had lost. A job like
this should be no more than play for him, as it
once had been for the roan and haggard giant.
It wouldn’t be hard to call. Pallas was eighteen
million kilometers away — so far that it was only
a point in the ominous sky; but the photophone’s
quick finger of modulated light, carrying the small
vibrations of the human voice, could span that
hostile gulf in something like a minute. Rick
himself had called from Pallas, half a dozen times,
with cheerful, incoherent greeting. It would be
simple enough to call — yet still it was impossible.
Drake’s troubled thoughts dropped for a mo-
ment into the past. Back to Earth, with its bound-
less wealth of air, with its oceans that seemed vast
and invincible as space itself; back to the huge,
dazzling concrete spaceport at Panama City, just
before the war; to palms and hibiscus and in-
credible sea beaches; to the towering white, air-
conditioned city that housed the home offices of
Interplanet, then master of all the planets.
His dream was youthful, then, nearly thirty
years ago. He was a lank, young, red-haired giant,
mighty with its power. He had gone to Earth to
90
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
interest the directors of Interplanet in contrater-
rene research, and he was almost successful. He
found one influential man, alive enough to see
that the corporation’s ancient supremacy was far
gone in decay, great enough to sense the greatness
of his dream. But the war broke out, with the
stunning treachery of the Martian raid on Deimos
Station; Director Rogers was ordered to join the
fleet, and he died in the Battle of Eros; Drake
found himself a suspect alien, threatened with
internment.
The daughter of Director Rogers, however, used
her influence to help him get passage on the last
ship for Pallas, before the asterites were openly
involved in the war. And she came with him.
Evadne Rogers believed in the dream. She had
lived a saga of her own, not without its splendor.
She was brave enough to follow him out of the
aristocratic luxury of Interplanet’s capital, out to
meet the savage hostility of the frontier against
the stars. Rick was born on Obania, forty million
kilometers from the nearest doctor. She saw their
dream defeated, first by the war’s disasters, and
even after victory, again by the greater disaster
of peace under the Mandate. Her loyalty never
yielded to the letters of her wealthy relatives on
Earth, inviting her back to the luxury she had
left — though she insisted on sending Rick back to
them, when he was ten years old, to be prepared
for the great school of spatial engineering at
Panama City. Even her death had a hint of the
epic. Wearing dirigible space-armor, she was
helping Drake survey a bare little rock where
they hoped to build the long-delayed contrater-
rene laboratory, when she was killed by the same
seetee meteor that had burned his knee.
It was five years ago that Rick, twenty-one,
came back from Earth with his new degree. Drake
and Rob McGee met him at Pallasport, with the
Good-by Jane. They had planned to take him into
their partnership at once.
A dull, throbbing ache came into old Jim Drake’s
throat, even now, when he thought of that meeting.
The Interplanet liner was a splendid, tapered
silver column, standing on the broad busy field
at Pallasport. The locks yawned open, in the
mighty base of it. The gangways clattered into
place, and Rick came bounding down. He was
the awkward friendly giant that Drake had longed
to see, with a crushing handclasp and a joyous
grin. He was thrilled to be returned to the fron-
tier world of his boyhood, and he showed a shy
delight in his father and Rob McGee. Nothing
marred the reunion — until they came to speak of
the future.
McGee had taken them into a little bar, to
celebrate with a round of drinks. Rick was im-
pressed to discover that Pallas, capital of all the
Mandate, was not yet completely terraformed —
although the city and a score of mining centers
had their own paragravity units a few miles be-
neath the surface, there was as yet no peegee in-
stallation at the center of gravity.
“That’s the sort of job I want to do!” Rick
pushed a big, eager hand through his stiff, bronze
hair — it was the same color, Drake noted fondly,
as his mother’s had been. “That would open up
the whole planet — make room for millions of set-
tlers. I’ll talk to Mr. Vickers about it.”
Vickers, Drake recalled with a faint unease, was
the new branch manager of Interplanet. But he
was deeply stirred to see his son’s enthusiasm for
the science of spatial engineering. Rick could
help mightily to forge his old and difficult dream
into reality.
With a shy and awkward gesture, the youthful
giant was talking on. “Don’t you see what we can
do? Build a new world, almost! A modern para-
gravity cracking plant could supply chemicals for
great hydroponic plantations — make the asteroids
independent of food imports.”
“Hold on, son — I’m afraid they didn’t teach you
much practical politics, to go with your engineer-
ing,” Drake told him soberly. “The Mandate com-
missioners don’t want too many people out here,
or too much independence. They do want the
food situation like it is, for a club.”
Rick’s face showed a surprised, half-indignant
protest. Already a little frightened, Drake de-
cided it was time to speak of the future. He began
to lead up to it, anxiously:
“Besides, Rick, it would be too difficult and ex-
pensive to open a shaft to the center of Pallas,
with present equipment — through two hundred
and fifty kilometers of solid nickel-iron.” His
voice began to ring. “Now, as soon as we've mas-
tered seetee, such things will be easier. With a
seetee nitrogen torch — ”
Drake stopped himself, painfully. He saw the
look on Rick’s face. No words were necessary.
He could see what his tall son thought about the
dream. Awkwardly he turned to order another
drink, trying to hide the heartbreak on his face.
Rob McGee hadn’t noticed — the corqjplexities of
space and time were all transparent to his odd
perception, but human beings refused to obey any
such beautiful laws as ruled celestial motions, and
their stubborn irrationality often baffled him.
“Rick, you remember the Good-by Jane?"
McGee spoke gently, obliviously, into that aching
pause. “We’ve brought her, to take you back to
Obania. From now on, we’re Drake, McGee &
Drake.”
Rick didn’t say very much. His untanned face
showed trouble, and he fumbled awkwardly with
his whiskey-soda glass. “I’m sorry, dad — but I’d
better tell you now.” Incoherently, he was trying
to be as gentle as he could. “I’ve signed a con-
COLLISION ORBIT
91
tract, to go to work for Interplanet.”
Numbed with the hurt of it, Drake spilled his
drink and paid no heed. Suddenly he understood
many things that his son didn’t say. He could
see the pity, on Rick’s troubled face, for two old
and futile men. The Good-by Jane, in Rick’s
modern expansive scheme of things, was only an
antiquated joke. Obania was only a funny little
ghost planet; Drake & McGee, spatial engineers,
were quaint, unfortunate relics of another era.
Drake could even understand what had hap-
pened to his son. Eleven years had made an
Earthman of him. Rick felt the Earthman’s pride
in the splendid ancient might of Interplanet, and
the cultured Earthman’s superiority to the native
asterite. His mother’s aristocratic relatives had
taught him their belief that Drake had squandered
his life, and hers, upon a crazy chimera — Drake
knew that Evadne had been happy with him, for
all their misfortune, but the relatives had never
accepted that.
Nor could Drake blame his son. After all, his
influential connections would assure Rick of a
successful career in Interplanet, and Drake knew
well enough that the road outside was hard. In
the end, contraterrene power might turn out to
be the chimera the relatives believed it — for forty
years of effort had brought the goal no nearer.
Drake made no attempt to persuade Rick to
break the contract. He knew it would be futile,
and he didn’t want a quarrel. Rick shyly pre-
sented a girl he had met on the liner — a pretty red-
head, who was somebody’s niece. Drake and Mc-
Gee took them for a hop around Pallas, in the
oh-so-quaint little Good-by Jane, and then went
back alone to Obania.
Rick had called several times, in the five years
since. He seemed less shy and incoherent. Drake
knew, proudly, that he was making good. Awk-
wardly he had tried to learn if Drake needed
money — and Drake managed to conceal the need.
Now, the photophone’s slender ray could carry
his voice to Rick in something like a minute —
but that call was quite impossible. For Rick was
loyal to Interplanet, and the conquest of contra-
terrene matter was still a crazy dream.
Pausing to rest his aching knee, between those
tarnished chromium pillars in front of old Bruce
O’Banion’s mansion, Drake tried to square his
gaunt and weary shoulders; he lifted his blue,
hollow eyes to meet the dark and hostile leer of
space, alone.
But he was not alone. Ann O’Banion came out
to drive him back to the one-street town under the
black metallic cliffs. She didn’t say that she had
seen him stumble; she spoke only of the urgency
of time.
In Interplanet’s shining new branch office — all
rhodium-plate and blue fluorescent glass, it was
the only new building in the town — she wrote him
a check for nine thousand Mandate dollars. Inter-
planet, even since the war, was still banker for
all the Mandate; slowly the corporation was shap-
ing military defeat into economic victory.
Rob McGee was waiting at the rusty little office.
They signed an agreement, making Ann a silent
partner in the firm of spatial engineers. McGee
found a dusty bottle of synthetic rum, and they
drank a toast to the future of Freedonia.
“Now, let’s talk as little as we can,” Drake cau-
tioned. “It may be several days before anybody
else finds out about the collision orbit — that’s all
that gives us a chance. Say we’re going prospect-
ing — that’s near enough to the truth.”
Ann nodded, asking, “Who are you afraid of?”
“Your friend, von Sudenhorst.” Drake smiled
briefly at her grimace. “He’s young, ambitious,
and extremely bored with Obania. He’s itching
for a chance at a conspicuous bit of duty — that
might get him promoted to a bigger post.”
“But we aren’t breaking any laws,” Ann pro-
tested.
“Laws have to be interpreted,” Drake reminded
her. “And the Guard doesn’t often interpret them
in favor of us asterites. If von Sudenhorst finds
out about the orbit, he might take over Freedonia
before we get the notice filed.”
92
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“He won’t find out from me,” Ann said posi-
tively.
They parted then, on separate errands. Ann
returned to the gleaming Interplanet building,
which was general store as well as bank and ship-
ping office, with Drake’s scrawled list of supplies
to be delivered aboard the Good-by Jane.
Rob McGee had been sorting over the ancient
mining tools stored in the back room behind the
little office. He went down to the secondhand
store at the foot of the street, to look for spare
cutter-heads for the antique oxyhydrogen drill.
Drake went in search of men. He wanted an
experienced foreman, at least three hard-rock
drillers and terraformers, and four swampers.
Since the mines shut down, however, most of the
skilled and the youthful had left Obania. Comb-
ing the Meteor Palace Bar, the domino parlor,
and the Mandate relief office, Drake collected only
five men — two elderly miners, a discharged guards-
man, a Venusiaa-Chinese cook, and a one-legged
hard-rock man named Mike Moran.
“A disappointing lot,” he told Ann O’Banion,
back at the office. “But they’re the best I can
find.”
“Then I’m going along, to help,” she quietly
announced.
“No you aren’t.” Drake made a shocked pro-
test. “We’ll be left on the rock, while Rob is
gone to Pallasport. If a fire storm comes, we’ll
just have to take it.”
“Can’t I take it?” Her tanned face was deter-
mined. “I can handle a dirigible suit as well as
anybody, and the men in dad’s mines taught me
how to run a drill when I was twelve years old.”
She added, gayly triumphant: “I’m a partner,
now — I must take care of my investment.”
Drake suggested that her father wouldn’t let
her go. But she had long ago learned how to
deal with Bruce O’Banion’s stubborn statesman-
ship, and she reminded Drake that she was now
of age. Drake yielded at last, uneasily — remem-
bering how Evadne had died in dirigible armor
on another airless rock.
Small and blue, in the long golden spindle of
the misty zodiacal light, the Sun hurried down the
somber sky, came up and dropped again — the day
of Obania was only four hours long; all clocks
kept standard Earth-time, of the Panama City
meridian.
They were almost ready. The shabby crew had
straggled aboard, grimy space bags shouldered.
Rob McGee had moved the pipes and pajamas out
of his tiny cabin, under the pilothouse, to make
a place for Ann. The lower hold was filled with
the mining machinery and drums of water. Under
the profane supervision of Mike Moran, the men
were loading fuel-uranium from an Interplanet
delivery truck — heavy costly ingots of the stable
concentrate, ten percent U-235, sealed in cadmium
cans because uranium has a vigorous chemical ap-
petite. Ann had just gone up the ladder, boyish
and capable in space breeches, when a man in
uniform asked for Drake.
“The subaltern’s greetings, Mr. Drake. You
and Captain McGee are requested to call at his
office — right away.”
Drake tried to conceal his puzzled alarm. He
called up the ladder well to Rob McGee. They
crossed the convex field to the big six-sided build-
ing beyond the tall war cruiser. Although Com-
mander von Sudenhorst spoke carefully unac-
cented English, his manner betrayed the smug,
deep-grained arrogance and the precise efficiency
encouraged by Martian military training. He re-
ceived Drake and McGee with a stiff curtsy,
which scaroely veiled his contempt for civilians
and, particularly, native asterltes.
“Be seated, gentlemen.” The austere metal
room rang to his domineering voice. They sat
uncomfortably on hard metal chairs, while he
searched them with slatelike eyes. “I am told
that you are preparing for a mining expedition.
All ship movements must be reported. Where are
you going?”
McGee answered innocently:
“Our papers are quite in order, sir. They have
already been stamped by your field officer. We
are clearing for an unnamed rock, HSM T-89-
AK-44.”
“Thank you, captain.” The Martian’s dull, shal-
low eyes came back to Drake, and his hard voice
rapped, “And what is your object?”
Drake tried not to hesitate. He refused to lie,
but he knew that it was sheer disaster to tell all
the truth. “Call it prospecting,” he said. “Ac-
cording to the ‘Ephemeris,’ that rock is going to
make a fairly close approach. Business is dull,
and there’s a chance we may find it valuable.”
“Valuable?” the officer echoed harshly. “It’s
nickel-iron !”
“That’s the ‘Ephemeris’ listing,” Drake agreed.
“Based on instrument readings of specific mass
and albedo. Possibly a surface survey will reveal
something more,”
The stubby hands of von Sudenhorst rattled a
paper on his immaculate metal desk. “I have here
a list of your crew, equipment and supplies.” His
blank eyes looked suddenly accusing. “An elabo-
rate list, for a prospecting trip!”
Drake felt an unpleasant sensation in his mid-
dle. “We’re taking men and equipment to work
a prospect hole,” he said desperately. “The gov-
ernment has not yet outlawed prospecting.”
“I’m aware of that.” Von Sudenhorst rose, a
black-uniformed automaton. “Thank you for call-
ing, gentlemen. I have no right to delay you.
However I advise you to keep in mind that the
restricted license of your craft does not include
COLLISION ORBIT
93
mining, salvage or towing operations. Good day.”
As they hurried back to the ship, McGee’s
leather face was furrowed with apprehension.
“We aren’t planning any mining, salvage or tow-
ing — not exactly. Do you think he’ll make us
trouble?”
“He’s not exactly cordial.” The giant’s bent
shoulders shrugged away the High Space Guard.
“The Jane is ready to go.”
V.
Nine people were too many for the little space
tug, but it was only twenty hours to Freedonia.
Mike Moran and the ex-guardsman, named Biggs,
swung their hammocks in the midships drive room.
The rest of the crew slept in the holds, and played
dominoes endlessly in the narrow wardroom.
Fifteen hours out, they struck the first ominous
whiff of contraterrene dust. A dozen particles
strafed the hull, clanging like rifle bullets. Drake,
in the pilothouse, heard a scream of fear from
the ladder well. Sounds of a scuffle; Mike Moran
cursing. Then Ann’s head came up the ladder,
unfrightened.
“Mutiny.” Her voice was calm. “Better come
down, Seetee.”
Mike Moran was leaning on the ladder in the
tiny wardroom, holding back the others with his
lifted crutch. Biggs stood before the two old
miners and the frightened Venusian. He was
flushed with alcohol, threatening.
“Turn ’er around!” he blustered up at Drake.
“We ain’t drivin’ into no bloody fire storm — not
in this rusty old can. We signed to work a pros-
pect — not to be burned alive!” His red-eyed glare
shifted to Mike Moran. “Make him put down that
damn crutch, and give me back my bottle.”
Drake dropped down the ladder, beside Moran.
With a deep and patient voice, he tried to stop the
panic that a few microscopic grains of seetee dust
had roused.
“Listen, men. You’re being paid to do a danger-
ous job, and you’ll get a bonus when it’s done.
But it’s not unreasonably dangerous — not unless
you lose your heads, and make it so yourselves.
Perhaps the ship is old, but she’s spaceworthy.
Let me tell you about our protection — ”
Krrrang !
At that loud reverberation, the Venusian turned
pasty-yellow. One of the miners squalled a curse ;
the other dropped on his knees, clutching a cruci-
fix, silently praying.
“Turn ’er around,” shouted Biggs, “before we
do it for you.”
“That was an alarming sound,” Drake admitted
patiently. “But the particle that made it was
smaller than the head of a pin. It struck three
inches of good steel. We have a layer of lead,
to absorb the gamma ray, and a seal of compressed
plastifoam, to save the air if one comes through.”
The faces still were white and ominous.
“Only the particles with freak velocities can
touch us,” Drake went on. “We have up a nega-
tive safety-field, that will stop everything under
ten kilometers a second, and deflect a good deal
of the rest.”
The ugly face of Biggs showed a stubborn
disbelief, and he tried to explain: “You can feel
the peegee field, here in the ship, that holds you
against the deck and keeps you from being space-
sick? Well, there’s a similar field around the hull,
pushing away — you couldn’t hit us with a rifle,
from fifty meters.”
Trying to relax the dangerous tension, he added
casually: “Men lifted the first ships off the
Earth, two hundred years ago, with that same
negative field — and shut it off, midway of the
voyage, to fall toward the destination. That was
before our directional peegee drive, which reacts
against the constant force of cosmic repulsion.”
“Cut the lecture, mister!” snarled the drunken
guardsman. “Suppose a big rock gets through
your safety-field?”
“We’ve got another gadget, for the big ones,”
Drake assured him. “The heat radiation of any-
thing larger than a pea will trip the thermalarm
relays, in time for the pilot-robot to change our
course.”
“Satisfied, brother?” Mike Moran rapped his
crutch on the deck. “Better be!”
Biggs retreated. Sullenly, he accepted Moran’s
profane challenge to a game of dominoes. Drake
went back to the pilothouse. A few more explo-
sive contraterrene atoms smashed against the hull ;
but Biggs soon dropped into an alcoholic sleep,
and the one-legged foreman kept the two old min-
ers, Hale and Galloway, busy with the dominoes.
Five hours later, they came to Freedonia.
Drake studied it through the periscope. Slowly
rolling against the mighty panorama of open
space — against the empty, illimitable darkness, the
silver dust and ghostly green of nebulae remote
beyond man’s imagination, the hard hot points of
many-colored stars that sometimes seemed near
enough to be scooped up in a glittering handful —
Freedonia was a jagged black cube, like a mon-
strous rolling die of iron.
Ann O’Banion came up into the pilothouse,
eager to see the new world she had named. Drake
gave her his place at the periscope. For a little
time she was silent, breathless. She turned from
the black hood, with a faint shudder.
“So that thing would strike Obania?”
“It would,” Drake assured her. “I’ve just been
checking the orbit, to have it on paper for the
claims office — and it is a collision orbit, actual as
well as legal.”
“Freedonia seems a strange name for it.” She
54
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
managed a hopeful smile. “It’s so far from Obania,
just a nudge ought to be enough to turn it aside.”
“Some five billion tons of iron isn’t easy to
move,” Drake told her. “And the legal definition
of a collision orbit is a good deal broader than
necessary — especially if von Sudenhorst is going
to be judge. We’ll have to swing it pretty wide.”
They slowly circled the asteroid, while Drake
studied its dark, forbidding contours. At last he
turned back to Rob and Ann, with a frown gather-
ing around his hollow eyes.
“The shape is unusually compact,” he said.
“That makes it very suitable for the laboratory
site. But the tunnel will have to be a good deal
deeper than I estimated, to reach the center of
gravity. I’m afraid it will be hard to get it fin-
ished in time.”
He had selected a camp site — a shallow, iron-
walled depression, near the south pole, which
would afford some slight protection from meteoric
drift. Rob McGee dropped the ship to a perfect
landing, and made fast with the paragravity
anchor.
All hands, except McGee, donned dirigible
armor. These suits, intended for heavy work un-
der dangerous open space conditions, were of
steel, lined with lead and plastifoam, and equipped
with small peegee drive units, which propelled
them like miniature ships.
Leaving the others to set up the camp, Drake
set out with a transit and Ann O’Banion for his
flagman, to make a quick survey of the nickel-iron
mass. After an hour they came to the abrupt rim
of a steep black chasm that Drake had seen from
above.
“What’s this?” As he faced Ann, the photocells
above the lenses of his bucket-shaped helmet
picked up the red flicker of the photophone light
on the crown of hers. Her voice was slow with
wonder. “It's a weird-looking pit l”
She moved back from the brink of it, awed
with the evidence of some flaming cataclysm. All
about the lip of it, fused iron had congealed again
in grotesque snaky gouts. Lower, streaks and
traces of other minerals burned with lurid phos-
phorescence.
“This is where that seetee fragment struck,”
Drake told her. “Quite a little atomic blowup —
that glow is from temporary radioactivity, from
the absorbed radiation.” His awe gave way to
eager purpose. “But this is the spot we’re looking
for — the bottom of this pit is already burned
nearly halfway to the center of gravity.”
By the time they returned to the little polar
cup, the shelters were pitched — igloo shapes of
woven metal, lined with lead foil and self-sealing
plastic, fastened down with cables welded to the
living iron, and inflated with oxyhelium. Small
cylindrical air locks gave entrance. Standing at
the end of a short taut cable, above the crown of
each shelter, was a small peegee unit. Set to nega-
tive polarity, these provided a comfortable pres-
sure against the floor, and some protection against
meteor drift. When they were turned on, it was
necessary to climb to the shelters against their
repulsion. A small uranium motor-generator, in
the mess tent, supplied light, heat and paragravity
power. There was a common shelter for the
crew, beyond the smaller silver-painted igloos for
Drake and Ann.
They moved the ship to the edge of that black,
phosphorescent chasm, to unload the drilling
equipment — which had to be secured with nets
and cables, for the natural gravity of Freedonia
was too weak to hold it safely. Then the air lock
closed again. The ship’s photophone, like a small
searchlight above the stubby bow, swung down to
Drake and Ann, standing in their armor like
clumsy robots beside the antiquated machinery.
“Luck,” said Rob McGee. “Back as soon as I
can.”
“Buy the peegee unit first,” Drake warned him.
“Don’t talk — and don’t file the notice till you’re
ready to start back. Something might go wrong.”
He added, trying to hide the catch in his voice:
“You’ll see Rick. Tell him . . . tell him we’re all
doing fine.”
“Right,” said Rob McGee. “Good luck.”
Biggs, the guardsman, had called the two old
miners around behind the ship. Now he led them
back, his helmet photophone flashing red — the
suits all looked alike, but their names were sten-
ciled on them with green-glowing fluorescent
paint.
“Let us back aboard!” Biggs was frightened
and truculent; his glaring lenses swung to Mike
Moran. “Are you going to stay here, marooned —
and maybe get trapped in a fire storm?”
“I am — and so are you,” retorted the one-legged
driller. “You signed a contract to work here two
weeks. It’s my job to see you do it.” Lifting a
steel-gloved hand to shield his helmet lamp from
Ann, he added a few emphatic comments.
Biggs swung on Drake, lifting steel-mailed fists.
“To hell with your contract!” he blustered. “Tell
McGee to open that valve — or we’ll smash the
lenses out of your damn helmet!”
“Wait, Biggs.” Drake could understand the
fear of space, of its dark and fiery monotony of
danger, of its cold, unbounded vastness that
shrank the human ego. He knew that the danger
here was real enough, but it was necessary for
the ship to leave them. Patiently, he began to
explain the situation. “Listen, men — ”
Mike Moran, however, took the matter out of
his hands. Agile as a fish in the dirigible suit,
he needed no crutch now. When Biggs advanced
again, with threatening fists, Moran dived at him
COLLISION ORBIT
95
and hauled him away by the neck strap
of his armor.
Ann waved a troubled farewell; and
the Good-by Jane lifted, silent as a
shadow, for the long voyage to Pallas-
port. Rust-red in the glancing Sun, it
dwindled and was swiftly lost in the
dark chasm of space. They were alone.
VI.
Drake shook off a brief unease. He
still could feel the sullen, fearful hos-
tility of the man Biggs ; but he was used
to facing the dangers of space as they
appeared, and he expected others to do
the same. After all, they had safety
devices. And any meteor miner had to
take his share of seetee when it fell.
Patiently he tried to explain that to
the uneasy men, and then they began to
set up the drill. The battered old ma-
chine had a mass of twenty tons. Haul-
ing on cables, they pulled it over the pit, and
let it slowly sink between the dark, fire-streaked
walls of iron. Ann swam to it, and opened the
thick lead hood over the uranium motor-generator.
“Better keep clear.” Drake’s head lamp flashed
the warning. “The machine seems light, here, but
it has the same mass as always. It might catch you
against the walls.”
“I’m no baby, Seetee.” Her clumsy, bright-
painted suit stood up, on the side of the floating
machine, and he could imagine her making a child-
ish face of protest. “I was just going to heat the
separator manifold.” And her voice challenged:
“Just see if I don’t know how to run the drill?”
She pointed with a confident armored hand.
“You pump water into that little seetee refiner,
to get oxygen and hydrogen. They burn again,
in the cutter-head — till the iron gets hot, and you
turn off part of the hydrogen. Those gears turn
the cutter around a core of iron. When you have
cut a four-meter section, you take it out with the
section-head and the magnetic hoist. And then
you go down with the cutter again, and take an-
other bite. Isn’t that right?”
Drake nodded, though his massive helmet didn’t
yield to nods. He heard the admiring voice of
Mike Moran, for once unprofane, “Ma’am, I take
ydu for a real hard-rock man!”
The machine was leveled, in the rounded bottom
of that fire-streaked pit, and welded into place.
Ann began to prove her skill, starting the little
uranium motor. At last the drill began to turn.
Airless space, like an ocean of cotton wool, muffled
all sound of machinery, but Drake could feel the
vibration of the gears through his boots. Moving
points of blinding incandescence cut a slow one-
meter circle into the hard black iron.
“Now I feel like it’s Freedonia!” Ann’s small
voice held elation. “I feel like it’s ours.”
Drake said nothing to discourage her. On the
driller’s seat, turning with the slow spiral move-
ment of the cutter-head, he moved heavily to
adjust the economy screens, which collected the
particles of ice and iron oxides blown back from
the cutting flames — oxides were precious, on this
iron world, and they had brought the very mini-
mum of water. He didn’t want to depress her
spirits, but he knew that Freedonia was far indeed
from safely won.
When the drill was running smoothly he divided
the party into two shifts. Drake, with Ann and
old Galloway, stayed with the drill. Mike Moran
took Biggs and Hale back to camp, to rest for
the second shift.
“Very good!” On that first twelve-hour shift
they had hoisted out four thick four-meter cores,
and Ann was jubilant. “At sixteen meters a shift,
we’ll have the foundation ready by the time Cap’n
Rob gets back.”
The second shift, however, failed to keep up
that rate of progress. Biggs had inspired old Hale
with his grumbling resentment. Drake refused to
suspect them of deliberate sabotage; he thought
they merely lacked the knack of calling the last
impossible Ounce of service from worn-out equip-
ment. But somehow Biggs let the separator mani-
fold freeze, on the uranium engine — which hap-
pened at about 1850° C. That cost hours of delay.
In all the shift, they cut only two “bites.”
Drake took the whole crew into his confidence,
in an effort to speed the work. Standing before
them in the mess shelter, a tired and aged giant,
he spoke with a patient urgency:
96
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“Men, this is not just an ordinary prospect hole.”
He waited for the fat yellow cook to pour hot
tea. “I’d better tell you, we’re trying to terraform
this rock — to steer it off a collision orbit. We had
ten days, from the time we landed, before the
legal limit — ”
“Bitter swill !” Biggs spat his tea at the cook’s
feet, and snarled at Drake: “Are you crazy,
mister? This bloody rock ain’t worth terraform-
ing !*’
“You’ll get a bonus, if the job is done in time.”
Drake said nothing of his dream. “But we’re
eight meters behind schedule, already. We’ve got
to have the foundation ready, to install that unit
at the center of gravity, when McGee gets back
with it.” His voice dropped humbly. “Will you
help us make up that eight meters?”
The rest all cheerfully pledged their efforts,
with the bitter tea. But Biggs had never learned
to like that spaceman’s drink, and he sat ominously
silent.
Although Drake and Ann cut five sections on
their next shift, it proved impossible to make up
the missing eight meters. Shift after shift, dis-
aster continued to haunt Mike Moran and his crew.
Drake and the girl were unexpectedly called to
help with emergency repairs, until they both were
drawn with need of sleep.
First, the cutter head stuck. For want of proper
adjustment of the oxyhydrogen jets, to bum the
iron cleanly from the cut, molten metal congealed
about the cutter-head, welding it fast. It required
seven hours to cut the stem free, install a spare
head, and start the drill again.
The next day Biggs, working as swamper, some-
how let a twenty-ton core roll back into the pit.
It fell very slowly, to the slight gravitation. The
men had time to get out of the way. But its silent
impact smashed the section cutter. Repairs again
consumed the rest of the shift.
By that time the shaft was twenty meters behind
schedule. Drake and Ann managed to gain one
section, but the other crew lost it again — because
of a fall of contraterrene dust.
The tiny particles fell invisibly, exploding
against the black iron with small, instantaneous
puffs of blinding blue flame, silent and deadly.
None fell into the pit, but Biggs and the other
miner, frantic, fled to the rather more dangerous
location of the camp.
The fall soon ceased, and Drake went back with
Ann and old Galloway to begin the next shift.
They found Mike Moran still tending the engine.
But the abandoned cutter-head was stuck again,
and it took them half the shift to replace it with
their last spare.
McGee was overdue.
Seven days were gone, and all this weary shift
Drake had anxiously watched the mouth of the
pit, looking for the photophone light of the
Good-by Jane. He had seen only the ragged patch
of stars and nebula, sliding across in remote splen-
dor as the rock turned.
Beneath those glowing fire-hewn walls, Drake
and Ann stood beside the little rusty derrick. A
winch spun silently, and a thin racing cable hauled
up the last section they had cut. At the levers,
Drake was glad that the stiff bulk of oversize
armor concealed his bitter fatigue. The red head
lamp brought Ann’s cheerful voice:
“Just thirteen bites left, to the center of
gravity.” She marked a tally on the iron wall,
with a blue fluorescent pencil. “That isn’t so far,
Seetee!”
“Too far!” His voice was dull. “We should
have been done. Rob should have been back with
the unit yesterday. I don’t know what — ” He
checked the words; he didn’t want to break her
gay, determined optimism.
“We still have three days,” she reminded him
hopefully, “before the Guard can put us off.”
Drake didn’t answer. He knew of nothing they
could do, in three days, to move five billion tons
of iron. He intended to keep on trying, simply
because he wasn’t used to quitting. But he could
see no hope.
The heavy core came out of the shaft, fast to
the powerful little electromagnet. Ann stepped
on the iron cylinder, to ride it out of the pit.
The swamper’s task had a pleasant spice of danger
and she enjoyed it. Drake hadn’t wanted her to
take it, but Ann knew how to get her way.
Mike Moran and his crew came out for the next
shift. That turned out to be the last — for old
Hale doubled up with a sudden agony of space-
man’s colic, and had to go back to the shelter;
and Biggs, taking his place on the drill, somehow
let the cutter-head freeze fast again.
The foreman woke Drake with that bad news.
Drake went down the shaft to try to free the drill.
Hour after hour he labored, his oversize armor
too big for that cramped pit. He accomplished
nothing. The cutter-head was fused to the living
iron, and there were no more spares.
“Seetee — come up!” Ann’s head lamp flashed at
the top of the pit; her voice was breathless.
“There’s a ship — coming in to land beside the
camp.”
He thought the ship would be the Good-by Jane.
Rob McGee ought to have repairs for the drill,
and even two or three fresh men, to help with
the heavy task of installing the drive unit. Per-
haps they could still get it in place before their
time expired; von Sudenhorst might be generous
enough to let them go ahead.
Soaring over cragged iron horizons, they hurried
back to camp. Out of frosty, glittering night, they
came into the cold, pallid glare of a shrunken
sun that struck out of that same dark sky, harshly
COLLISION ORBIT
97
across the lonely little cluster of white-painted
igloos in the iron-walled cup.
The ship had landed near them, but it was not
the Good-by Jane. Drake caught a painful gasp
of thin oxyhelium, and the hope flowed out of
him. The ship standing on a ledge of iron had
the lean, tall, torpedo shape of a war cruiser, and
its black, tapered hull glowed with the four-
quartered flag of the High Space Guard.
VII.
Drake and Ann O’Banion dropped to a ridge of
iron, shaken and deflated. A photophone light
tipped down, above the cruiser’s ugly nose. The
flickering beam brought them the harsh metal
voice of Kurt von Sudenhorst.
"Good day, Mr. Drake — and Miss O’Banion.”
He could see the names painted on their armor.
His greeting held no warmth, not even when he
spoke to Ann — nothing else must interfere with
the duty of a guardsman. “What’s your business
here?”
Drake tried to keep the alarm out of his tired
patient voice. “We told you before we left
Obania. We’ve been drilling a prospect hole.”
“Perhaps !” Loud and strident on the trembling
ray, the Martian-German’s voice carried a trium-
phant accusation. “Perhaps you didn’t know that
this rock is on a collision orbit, with the Guard
base at Obania?”
Drake clung to his patient calm.
"As a matter of fact, we did know. Captain
McGee left for Pallasport seven days ago, to file
legal notice of our intention to avert the collision.
We are expecting him now, with our drive unit.”
“Then you lied!” It was a metal rasp. “You
are guilty of concealing a danger to the Guard.”
“Legally the danger of collision does not exist
until thirty days before the time of predicted
impact,” Drake said patiently. “Thirty days is
presumed to be ample time for the Guard to avert
a collision. And our legal notice, filed in Pallas-
port, gave sufficient warning.”
The flickering beam brought a harsh, uncertain
sound.
“Anyhow, your scheme has failed,” observed
von Sudenhorst. “Your notice was duly reported
to me, but my observations show that the asteroid
is still on a collision orbit. The thirty-day limit
is only sixty hours away. We have a work ship
en route from Pallas to take over the job.”
“We still have sixty hours.” Drake stood
straight in his massive suit. “We still have a
chance.”
“A chance, ja/” Derision made von Sudenhorst
careless about his English. Drake waited uneasily
through a little silence. The steady ray brought
no hint of the officer’s thoughts.
"You have sixty hours,” he agreed abruptly.
“However, I now give you notice that we shall
be forced to evacuate all civilians from this
asteroid, when that time is up — unless you have
successfully altered the orbit.”
“Kurt!” protested Ann. “You wouldn’t!”
“That is for your own safety, Miss O’Banion,”
the Martian told her stiffly. "If your ship does
not return, we have space for your party aboard
the cruiser — including a nice stateroom for you.”
“Thank you, Kurt.” Ann’s voice was tense. “We
won’t be needing it.”
“We shall be waiting for you, Miss O’Banion,”
returned von Sudenhorst, a hint of mockery be-
hind his formality. “I know that you are not
magicians.”
They returned to the little cluster of white
igloos. The cruiser loomed above them, ominous
as a tall, ebon tombstone. Drake looked hopefully
past it, into the dark splendor of space. He found
the dim gray point of Pallas, but there was no
hint of the returning Good-by Jane.
Ann waited until they were in his shelter before
she whispered desperately, “That’s the last straw
— I simply can’t give in to von Sudenhorst.”
Strong teeth bit her pale lip. “What can we do?”
“Wait for Rob . . . good to know he got there.”
Drake sounded incoherent. “Nothing else to do.”
He dropped across his cot — he was a stooped
and shrunken giant, but still it looked too small.
Ann spoke to him anxiously, and then realized
that he had gone to sleep. She hadn’t realized
how tired he was.
She turned up the electric heater, and spread
a blanket over him. Stopping to set the little
peegee air machine, that drew fresh oxygen out
of exhaled carbon dioxide and water, she saw a
photograph propped on the cabinet — a picture in
color of Drake’s tall son, smiling a bronze, mag-
nificent smile. Ann made a quick little face of
disapproval.
“You ought to be here, Rick,” she gravely ad-
vised, “instead of off working for the enemy. I
can just remember you, before you left Obania —
a nasty little body with grubby fingernails. But
your dad tells me you’ve grown up to be a shining
paragon of strength and manly virtue. Don’t you
know he’s getting too old for jobs like this? If
you’re so all-fired splendid, why aren’t you here
to lend him a hand?”
The photograph continued to smile — she thought,
with disgusting conceit. Impatiently she slipped
back into her armor and went to the mess shelter.
The men were playing dominoes. Their idleness
annoyed her, but she knew there was nothing they
could do. She scolded the bland Venusian for
the not uncommon sin of his grease-spotted apron,
and returned to her own shelter.
She tried to read a novel and found it impos-
sible. She knew that the men would tell her at
98
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
once if the Good-by Jane came back. Yet she kept
getting up, against her will, to peer out through
the tiny lead-glass peepholes in the thick, inflated
fabric.
Somehow, it was difficult to keep her eyes off
the tall black cenotaph of von Sudenhorst’s cruiser,
standing its ominous guard above. An appalling
idea had come to keep her company. She was
afraid she would marry the Martian-German — if
they failed to win Freedonia.
The idea surprised her, because she had always
privately laughed at his stiff and formal suit. But
she would be penniless if they failed; and she
thought he would take advantage of such a cir-
cumstance. She was astonished to realize that
von Sudenhorst, stupid and arrogant as he might
be, was yet masculine enough to have a certain
unpleasant attraction. She disliked him, and knew
she always would. The idea frightened her, but
she couldn’t put it out of her mind.
Three hours later there was another sudden fall
of seetee dust. Watching anxiously from her
shelter, Ann saw the little silent splashes of fire,
blue and painful, scattered all across the little iron
depression — except in a little circle about the
standing cruiser, which was protected by its safety
field.
ShrrrapJ
At that sudden report behind her, she jumped
and choked back a nervous scream. Burned paint
made a sharp reek, and she turned up the air
machine to clear it out. She listened for a leak,
but if the grain of dust had pierced the fabric the
hole had already sealed itself.
The red photophone light above the cruiser be-
gan blinking furiously again. But she didn’t con-
nect the shelter photophone — no doubt von Suden-
horst was offering her the safety of the cruiser,
but she thought she couldn’t endure his metal
voice, just now.
After a few minutes, when the fall of dust had
slackened, she saw three men leave the mess shelter
and plunge furiously into the cruiser’s open lock.
Mike Moran followed more deliberately — she
recognized his graceful handling of the flying
armor — and presently brought back the empty
suits. He saw the burn on her shelter, and stopped
to see if she had been injured.
“That was Biggs and his two stooges,” he told
her. “They’ve quit the job.” He sounded worried.
“I tried to call Mr. Drake, ma’am, but he don’t
answer.”
“Let him sleep.” The flood of despair came into
her voice. “It doesn’t matter about the men —
there’s nothing left for them to do.”
At last, after Ann had abandoned all hope, the
Good-by Jane returned. The rusty little tug
dropped softly between the white igloos and the
cruiser. Ann got into her armor and dived eagerly
toward its air lock. Drake reached it with her.
They left the armor below and climbed into
the little pilothouse. Rob McGee met them, with
mute tragedy in his squinted eyes. In the green-
mildewed space coat, his weary shoulders made a
helpless shrug of failure.
“What happened?” Ann cried urgently. “What
kept you?”
“They beat us, that’s all.” McGee shook his
tangled yellow head. “I couldn’t buy a new-type
terraforming unit— not from Interplanet or any-
body else in Pallasport.”
“But why?” Ann gasped.
“Because we are asterites.” McGee’s voice was
gentle as ever, but his leather face showed bitter
lines. “Because we’re trying to work for our-
selves, instead of for a monopoly with a whole
independent planet behind it. Because the Man-
date government is trying to keep us down.”
“But what did they do?” demanded Ann.
“Nothing.” McGee shrugged. “They didn’t
refuse to sell the unit outright — none of them.
They just put me off, with red tape and delay.
They made me fill out applications, and wait for
permits. They didn’t know about the collision
orbit, but of course von Sudenhorst had reported
our expedition to Guard headquarters, and Inter-
planet must have been tipped off that we were up
to something. I filed the notice of intention, just
before I left — though I don’t see how it will do
us any good.”
A bitter silence filled the little gray-walled room
till Drake broke in with an eager question of his
own: “Rick? Did you see my boy?”
Little McGee looked quickly at Drake’s gaunt,
tense face, and quickly away; he began to fumble
aimlessly with the dials of the pilot robot. “Yes,
I went to Rick.” His voice was very soft. “I told
him all about it, Jim. He said it was a dirty
shame. He promised to see Mr. Vickers, and have/
Interplanet cut the red tape and get us a terra-
forming permit and sell us a unit — I saw a dozen
crated units, at the Interplanet docks.”
Fidgety and uncomfortable, McGee clicked a
switch on and off.
“I waited all day, but Rick couldn’t do any-
thing.” He gulped. “Rick was awfully sorry,
Jim. He wanted you to understand that he couldn’t
do anything. He told me to explain how it was.”
Drake didn’t speak. He merely sat down on the
metal stool and dropped his big roan head in his
folded arms on the case of the pilot robot. He
wasn’t a giant any longer, Ann thought. He was
just a broken old man.
She saw little Rob McGee move nimbly to the
ship’s photophone and take up the receiver. Dully,
without interest at first, she heard his gentle voice.
It sounded far away.
“Yes, von Sudenhorst. McGee speaking. . . .
All right, then, Commander von Sudenhorst. . . .
COLLISION ORBIT
99
Another beacon? What are Its bearings? . . .
We’ve been expecting a fire storm. . . . Very well,
commander, you can go ahead and evacuate any of
our men who wish to go. . . . Miss O’Banion? I’ll
_ ^ _ »
see.
Ann shook her head emphatically.
“No, commander, she doesn’t seem to,” McGee
said gently. “No, I think we’ll stay with the
Good-by Jane. . . . Well, if it’s suicide, it’s our
suicide. . . . No, sir, I don’t believe Miss O’Banion
will change her mind. . . . Very well, I’ll speak to
Mr. Drake.”
Drake’s grizzled head lifted out of his folded
arms. Ann bit her lip, for his face was terrible to
see. It was so shrunken and so gray, the wrinkles
so terribly bitter and deep. Tears were burning
in the dark, hollow eyes. Drake said nothing. He
merely shook that dreadful head.
“No, commander,” Rob McGee said very softly,
“we won't evacuate — not till that sixty hours is
up.” He replaced the receiver, and added in that
same gentle voice, “And verdamnt to you, von
Sudenhorst."
VIII.
Ann’s anxious face spoke a voiceless question.
“Yes, von Sudenhorst says there’s more seetee
on the way.” McGee’s over-quiet showed his dis-
turbed emotion. “There’s a swarm-blinker coming
down across our orbit. The subaltern is only doing
his duty. He wants to evacuate us from the track
of the fire storm.”
Silence fell, thick and breathless in the narrow,
gray-padded pilothouse. Drake sat with his big,
red-gray head on his folded arms. He didn’t move
and he made no sound. But Ann felt as if all his
being, his old gigantic strength and his old splen-
did dream, his love for Rick and his very wish to
live, all had crumbled and fallen to dust before
her eyes. Teeth in her lip, she turned jerkily away
from him. This terrible moment was too private
for anyone to see. She ached to help him, but
there was nothing she could do.
“Let’s have a look for that blinker.” Rob McGee
seemed to understand. With a wan, grateful smile,
she turned with him toward the periscope. Pres-
ently he took his head out of the black hood to let
her see.
One greenish star was splendid on the black
field. The blinker was hard to find, but at last she
discovered its small, hurried signal, red-blue-and-
yellow, red-blue-and-yellow. It seemed tiny and
remote, its meaning difficult to grasp. Looking
back, she saw that McGee was consulting the worn
black volume of his “Ephemeris.”
“It’s the Theseid Swarm.” His voice was too
quiet. “The one that destroyed the liner Theseus,
back before Jim invented the blinker. It contains
many large fragments of drift, as well as dust.
A ST 70
One of the worst in the system. It will be here
in two hours.”
Ann glanced at Drake’s bowed, unmoving head.
It was strange to be reminded that an invention
of his had saved so many lives, that he had been
a giant among the mighty race of spatial engi-
neers, when now he seemed so futile and so broken.
She looked away again.
“Suppose another big fragment hits Freedonia?”
Her dry voice tightened with a desperate hope.
“Wouldn’t that carry us off the collision orbit?”
“Not likely,” said McGee. “There aren’t so many
as big as the one that hit before, and space gives
them lots of room to miss.” He shook his head,
adding softly: “Wouldn’t help us, if that hap-
pened. We have no legal claim to Freedonia,
unless we change the orbit ourselves.”
Her tanned hands clenched with a futile tension.
“Then I guess there’s no more use — ”
It surprised her into silence when Drake stood
up. The tears were gone. His haggard face was
stiff and strange. He stalked awkwardly to the
periscope. Turning from it, he began to question
Rob McGee about the relative motions of Free-
donia and the approaching cloud of contraterrene
drift. His voice was dull and low, as if disaster
had drained him of all emotion.
“Only ninety-three meters a second, but that’s
plenty for seetee.” Little McGee answered very
softly, at first. “The blinker itself will miss Free-
donia, by twenty-one kilometers. But the front
covers a wide area. Von Sudenhorst is right —
we ought to take off pretty soon if we’re going
to get out of the path — ”
Something happened, then. Something made
McGee catch his breath. For once his voice was
startled and high, protesting:
“You’re crazy, Jim — you can’t do that!”
Tense with wonder, Ann turned to old Jim
Drake. Something had happened to him. Still
his haggard face was set and gray, but his hollow
eyes were burning. Despair had turned to some
grim purpose. What it was, she couldn’t tell. But
McGee had read it from Drake’s questions — and
she could see that he was frightened.
“What is it, Seetee?” She caught at Drake’s
gaunt arm. “What are you going to do?”
But he didn’t seem to hear. His hollow eyes
were far away. She could almost see the strength
of this new purpose growing in him, lifting his
head, filling out his shrunken frame, making him
once more gigantic. Again he had become the
spatial engineer, boldly shaping hostile forces with
brain and brawn and daring, rebuilding the foreign
world of space to fit the needs of men.
“Don’t try it, Jim!” McGee was urging softly.
“You know it’s all theory, paper work — you never
had a lab. You know the spacemen are right — the
stuff is hell in chunks. You know a man can’t
100
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
live outside, in the fire storm that’s coming. You
were nearly killed by one gamma burn — isn’t that
enough?”
Drake smiled a little. Now he was a calm and
patient giant, unvanquishable, sure of the power of
his brain and his hands. McGee yielded to the
conquering purpose in his slow brown smile.
“Good luck, Jim,” he said softly. “What do you
want me to do?”
“Get the shaft ready for me.” Drake’s voice
was deep and confident again. “Drag the derrick
and the cables out of the way — so I can get in
without touching anything. We’ll need two or
three of the cores — tow them down and leave
them ready by the shaft. Then I’ll want you to
take me out to meet the drift.”
“Done, Jim,” said Rob McGee.
Ann wanted to know what he meant to do, and
she was pretty well accustomed to getting what
she wanted. But the mighty purpose visible in
Drake had inspired a kind of awe in her, so that
she didn’t ask again. She noticed that McGee was
answering the buzzing photophone again.
“The subaltern.” He had covered the receiver
with his hand. “The final warning, he says. He
demands that we come along out of the drift front
— or else let him evacuate the men and Ann.”
“The men must go,” Drake said instantly. “Call
Moran, and tell him to take the cook; the others are
already aboard.” He looked gravely at Ann. “You
had better go — this won’t be any picnic.”
“Not with Kurt von Sudenhorst,” she said.
“Besides, I want to stay and help — with whatever
you’re going to do.”
To her relief, Drake seemed to understand about
von Sudenhorst. “We’re going to move Free-
donia,” he said grimly. “Tell von Sudenhorst to
wait for the other men — Ann isn’t coming. And
tell him to watch us change the orbit!”
McGee told him — very gently. Ann heard an
ungentle metal rasping in the receiver before he
hung up. She made a pleased little face, and
then turned quickly to listen to Drake.
“You can help.” His voice was quick and vibrant
now, powerful. “You’re a good mechanic. I want
you to tear the batteries out of four of those spare
suits and make them into a pack that I can carry.
Connect them in parallel — I want amperage, for
a magnet. Wire in the best rheostat you can find
— I’ve got to have control, on that magnet! You’ve
about an hour for the job.”
She asked no questions. “Let me at it!” •
The beginning of the fire storm was no more
spectacular or alarming than any of the previous
falls of contraterrene dust. It was only a scat-
tered shower of incandescent splashes, tiny and
silent. In the deserted mess shelter, busy with
pliers and parts of the dismantled suits, Ann
scarcely noticed the beginning.
All the other falls, however, had quickly passed.
This steadily increased. It became a rain and a
terrible hail of fire. The shelter was struck a
dozen times. Escaping oxyhelium made a thin
slow hissing, from some hole not completely sealed.
Across the inside of the thick inflated fabric,
ominous blue letters began to stand out, spelling
DANGER.
The warning fluorescence of those stenciled
signs meant that deadly gamma rays were leaking
through the fabric. Ann left her task to put on
her dirigible armor— leaving the gloves detached,
so that her hands would be free to work the pliers.
She meant to marry, some day — though not von
Sudenhorst ; and she didn’t want to bear any ray-
shaped monstrosities. She paused a moment, by
a tiny peephole, to watch the inferno outside.
Hot blue splashes were dancing all across the
shallow iron depression, except where the low
black cliffs stopped the slanting fall. She saw a
wide rent in the shelter the men had used, though
the stiff fabric had not collapsed. It was fortu-
nate that they had gone with the cruiser.
Larger fragments were falling now. She saw a
dark, jagged boulder strike glancingly. It made
a steak of searing, intolerable fire, everywhere it
touched the iron. It skittered across the crater,
bounding on the cushion of its own fury some-
COLLISION ORBIT
101
what like a water droplet on a red-hot stove, and
finally dissolved in a vast curtain of silent, blind-
ing fire against the farther cliffs.
She hurried back to her task. The shelter
seemed dark to her dazzled eyes, and she was
numbed with an icy dread. Twisting feverishly
at the wires, she vaguely wondered again what
Drake meant to do. She didn’t see how even such
a capable giant as he could do anything at all, in
the midst of this storm of consuming fire.
In a few minutes more the heavy little power
pack was done. She put on her gloves and fas-
tened the face plate of her helmet. Carrying the
pack, she scrambled out through the air lock and
lifted the suit across the flame-spattered crags of
iron, toward the shaft.
A particle struck the back of her helmet with
a sudden dazing force that set her to spinning
wildly. But it must have been a very small one,
for she lived. She kept her grasp on the power
pack. She righted her flying armor and went on.
When she came in view of the black-walled pit,
the stubby little Good-by Jane was dropping into
it. Rob McGee was moving the iron cores, as
Drake had asked. He opened the air lock for her.
She gasped with relief to escape that fall of deadly
fire — though she knew there was danger yet, even
to the ship.
Now that her own effort was ended she felt
chilled and shaken. Inside the valves, she opened
her face plate and clung to the foot of the ladder,
too exhausted even to hail Rob McGee. In a few
minutes Drake came through the lock and pushed
up his own face plate.
“You aren’t hurt?” His voice was quick and
anxious. “Better keep your armor on. This drift
looks pretty thick, even for the Jane.” His voice
went deep again, with driving purpose. “You have
the battery pack?”
She nodded breathlessly, and then saw the
gadget that he had brought. He had cut the
powerful little electromagnet off the magnetic
hoist they had used to lift the cores from the
shaft and welded a convenient handle to it. She
helped him connect the power leads, and strap
the rheostat in his glove, and secure the batteries
to the shoulders of his armor.
“Finished, Rob?” his deep voice pealed up the
ladder well. “Then take us out to meet that
blinker."
IX.
Contraterrene drift flowed about the battered
little space tub, a black and silent rain of danger.
The repulsion of the safety field stopped most of
the dust. The thermalarm relays snatched the
ship aside, again and again, in random mechanical
efforts to escape some fragment on a stationary
collision bearing. Little Rob McGee used the best
of his curious skill. ^Although the old hull rang,
time and again, to the crash of debris, he tool:
Drake out to meet the blinker.
Drake was waiting by the valves at the bottom
of the ladder well. A gigantic robot, in the silver-
painted armor, he was busy getting the feel of
the rheostat strapped under his steel-gloved thumb.
Ann O’Banion stood beside him, and she felt
a sense of awe. He was going into frightful dan-
ger, but he didn’t seem afraid. She was still with
a new respect for human greatness, for the human
might it took to conquer these frontiers, that
were never planned for men.
Still he hadn’t told her the thing he was going
to do — not in words. But she could see the terrible
outline of it, in his preparations. She felt cold
and ill with dread. But she could see that he was
not afraid, and that queer awe stopped any protest.
McGee’s quiet voice came down the ladder well:
“Ready, Jim? Here’s a bit of seetee that fits
all your specifications. Nearly pure nickel-iron,
from the color. It will fit into a one-meter shaft,
with twenty centimeters to spare.”
“Ready,” answered Drake.
“One minute,” called McGee. “I have to match
velocity, and then I’ll cut the safety field.” That
was a necessary precaution, Drake knew; the nega-
tive field would have hurled him away from the
ship, as impartially as if he had been another
meteor. But the drift was not so dangerous, now
that the ship was moving with it. “All ready, Jim.”
McGee’s voice was very soft. “Good luck.”
Ann gulped. A throbbing ache in her throat
wouldn’t let her speak. Chilled and trembling, she
helped that serene and awkward giant close the
inner valve behind him. She lifted her glove
against the thick little window in a tense, hopeful
gesture.
Drake emerged from the air lock into the still,
dark splendor of open space. He saw the blinker
— a tiny, spidery wheel, spinning eternally against
a bright Galactic star cloud, flashing its hurried,
tireless warning. It was only a few kilometers
away; this was the swarm’s very heart.
In a moment he discovered the contraterrene
meter that McGee had chosen for him, not a hun-
dred meters distant. Even without his partner’s
mathematical eye he could see that it was well
selected — its black, rugged mass was long, com-
pact, narrow enough to slide easily down the shaft.
With teeth set on the plastic-cushioned helmet
stick of his armor — for the magnet and its rheostat
occupied both his hands — Drake made two or three
preliminary practice circles. He approached the
dark chunk of contraterrene iron, gingerly.
Collision with it might not be instancy fatal.
But he knew that a fending arm could be swal-
lowed into flame and nothingness. He knew that
the tissue-burning gamma rays of that matter-
consuming reaction could leak even through his
unharmed suit, to kill with an ugly, lingering
102
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
death. Cramped in the armor, his bad knee gave
another monitory twinge.
He swam up cautiously behind that dark and
deadly ingot, and brought the case of the magnet
carefully within a few inches of it. Slowly he
moved the rheostat, to energize the magnet and
draw the meteor toward him. Carefully, at the
same time, he pushed up the control stick with
his teeth, to draw away from danger.
The meteor followed. He fled, and it pursued.
The flight required a nerve-draining precision of
control. The inverse-square law became almost an
edict of death. If he drew the magnet an inch
too far away, its force snapped like a rotten string;
if he let it slip too near, its attraction was in-
stantly redoubled, jerking him toward that pur-
suing deadly mass. Again and again he had to
stop the current, with a convulsive jerk of his
thumb. And twice, for all his care, the case of
the magnet touched a point of the meteor, with
blinding silent fire.
Rob McGee was helpful. He followed close —
still with the little tug’s safety field recklessly off,
so that its unequal thrust would not impede
Drake’s exacting task. On the ship’s photophone,
he gave soft-voiced directions — he always, knew
exactly how far ahead Freedonia was, and exactly
how much of that ninety-three meters a second of
relative velocity remained for Drake to conquer.
As they slowed toward Freedonia’s pace, the
remainder of the drift began to move about them
again, with an increasing threat. McGee came to
the rescue, holding the ship for a shield between
Drake and that deadly ra-in. In spite of that, a
few small stray particles struck his armor, their
jolting, unexpected impacts increasing the peril of
his task.
Yet Drake remained the spatial engineer. Even
during those most desperate moments, a part of
his trained mind was detached from the task that
seemed to call for every faculty — busy trying to
design a new relay, 'that would somehow circum-
vent the inverse-square law.
At last he saw the black and jagged cube of
Freedonia, rolling against the field of stars ahead.
Still the fire storm raged against it, for he could
see the unending dance of hot blue points against
the crags of naked iron. The photophone brought
a final gentle word from Rob McGee:
“Here we are, Jim. Now, ignoring rotation,
your velocity is matched exactly with the rock.
I guess the rest is up to you.”
With the helmet stick in his teeth, Drake didn’t
try to speak. He merely bobbed the suit. The
little tug slipped silently away. Now McGee
could use the safety field again, and even take
shelter from the drift in Freedonia’s lee. Drake
knew the rest was up to him — and it was the
trickiest part of a ticklish job.
Swimming underneath the seetee meteor, he
tugged it gently downward, hastening the accelera-
tion of Freedonia’s tiny gravity. With a gentle
pull to overtake the asteroid’s rotation, he drew
it over the dimly glowing pit where they had
drilled the shaft.
He tipped the meteor upright, upon its longest
axis. Tugging at projecting knobs, he imparted
a slow spin that would help to hold it there. He
let it continue to fall — and steered it carefully
into the one-meter shaft that they had drilled.
He had to follow it.
That necessity was the reason he had not tried
to explain his plan in words, to Ann and Rob
McGee. Very soon that shaft was going to be-
come a volcano, erupting frightful atomic fire. He
thought he would have time to get out before that
happened; but his understanding of the seetee
reaction was based on paper work — he had never
had a laboratory. He had not dared to trust them,
to let him take the chance.
He had to go down with the meteor, because
of Freedonia’s axial spin. Rotation would tend
to fling the falling meteor continually against the
forward side of the shaft as it approached the
center of gravity. He had seen that it could stand
a few accidental knocks, without "catastrophe. But
that steady thrust, he knew, would be enough to
precipitate the full explosive reaction, long before
it fell to the bottom of the shaft.
He swam down close behind it, headforemost,
with his photophone head lamp snapped on for
illumination. He thrust the magnet far down on
the sunset side of the pit, to hold the slowly turn-
ing meteor off the opposite wall.
Several times, in spite of Drake’s cautious tugs,
some jagged point of it came against the smooth
dark walls — with a silent burst of terrible flame.
But he managed to keep those accidental nudges
gentle enough to avoid catastrophe, and he was
relieved to see that the meteor rebounded from the
wall.
That effect he was not quite prepared to explain
— perhaps the reaction had a temperature factor.
But he had observed it before — he had seen seetee
pebbles skittering across terrene matter, like drop-
lets of water riding their cushions of steam across
hot metal. He had counted on it to save his life.
The narrow walls of iron came up about him
endlessly. His gaunt body was cold with the
sweat of nervous strain. His knee ached. A dull
discomfort in his middle became an uneasy threat
of spaceman’s colic.
And still the meteor fell.
He couldn’t see beyond it. He couldn’t see the
bottom of the shaft. But the broken drill stem
burned with a white and warning fury when the
meteor touched it. He managed to check his own
descent, just short of death.
The meteor rebounded a little from the bottom
r
I A
Hep ^n. hl
y Her ® * 0v ®r
SOf fi °°* cn . h * n *» 19 42 n
" 9 “•> to t„ ‘"•M
ST "« 0 .
' am °" d
° ! °' “"'so*,, • t
p/ofe . °*o/jj Q .
r °sfe rs o/ nd facts! r
r * 9 'no/or./eo. C<M "'
sr/?/ /ce rvv 0 / ° clubsl
Scow*
P "’ W *9no» c
m,rt ln a , n . *«
s
Wi P0C!al W °rld Se> .
9 °°* *"•***«
, HUS ««««.„,
n °* /942 era ,e * «/op 9
2 Sr ^Efr 4 ci, ’ ” ' o// »o ffc
»oo, SSM '^ BAUY £
POfl ^W. P yy ° U ‘ fill out t L
thB CO W.
, -wrr
f5 ^c /„ c
C «»Orf 0 ,
***0»Cf*
104
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
of the shaft. The magnet grazed it with a flash
of searing light. But Drake was still alive, and
the magnet wasn’t ruined. He tried to steady the
meteor, scarcely daring to leave it.
It hung in the bottom of the shaft, the dark tons
of it moving in a slow and ominous dance, sup-
ported upon the incandescent fury of its own
dissolution. The reaction, as yet, was slow. Here,
near the center of gravity, there was only a tiny
pull upon it. But the rebounds might swiftly
increase. Of course the temperature was swiftly
rising, and, when it melted, things would happen.
In his stiff and bulky armor, Drake was too big
to turn in the shaft. He fled heels uppermost,
elbows striking harmless sparks from the iron.
The glare beneath him dwindled to a small, in-
tolerable point.
At the top of the shaft — but still in the iron
funnel of that larger pit, still in the path of the
coming blast — he slammed the magnet recklessly
against one of the great iron cores that Rob
McGee had placed ready for him.
There was no need for caution now — for any-
thing but haste. The thick iron cylinder was
almost weightless here, but still its mass of many
tons made it slow and difficult to move. He
hauled it laboriously over the shaft, and started
it home with all the thrust of his flying armor’s
drive.
It was wadding for his rocket gun. It would
hold back the fury of the contraterrene charge,
make sure that it didn’t blow itself out of the
shaft before it had been fused and vaporized and
utterly consumed, to release its full atomic might.
And its impact would certainly be enough to crush
the suspended charge into ignition.
For good measure, however, he dropped another
core after the first — he thought he had time enough
for that. Then he fled out of the glowing funnel
— chance had shaped it well enough, he thought,
into the bell-flare of an efficient rocket muzzle —
and retreated over the near horizon.
He had time to reach the asteroid’s lee. He
found the Good-by Jane, standing at anchor in
an iron-walled hollow. The photophone greeted
him, with a red and anxious flicker. But he had
no time to listen or to answer. He dived headlong
for the open air lock.
But it came, before he could get aboard. Even
as he dropped down upon the iron his feet could
feel a mighty and soundless vibration. Desper-
ately gripping the edges of the open valve, he
crouched against the rusty hull. However, he
couldn’t resist the temptation to risk his eyes with
a glance at the sky — for this rock was his labora-
tory.
Still there was no sound. Beyond the ship and
the iron cliffs, however, a white and mighty plume
came up. It was magnificent and blinding. It
flooded the sky and drowned the Sun. Drake bent
his helmet, to shield his eyes against the deluge Of
terrible radiation.
He heard a sighing, as if a thin wind passed.
The living iron quivered under him. Something
tugged at his armor. He clung desperately to the
valve. A hail of freezing iron rattled against his
back and he felt a parching heat.
And then it was over.
Silence came back, an insulating ocean. He
dared to look again, and his dazzled eyes saw a
sky of fading red — a veil of dull flame that ripped
and came to shreds and swiftly dissolved from
before the black, eternal face of spatial night.
The storm of iron was gone, and the Sun came
back.
An awed and weary giant, Drake stumbled 1 into
the air lock. He shut the outer valve behind him,
and heard the grateful hiss of air, and struggled
hastily out of his hot armor. A numbed and heavy
giant, he mounted the ladder to the pilothouse.
Before he had time to speak, Ann made him bare
his gaunt forearm for a routine antigamma injec-
tion. Rob McGee gave him the astrogator’s stool,
and it felt good to sit down. With a hoarse and
anxious voice, he gasped:
“Was the orbit changed — enough?”
He knew that the energy of annihilated matter
must have fused and boiled and expelled thou-
sands of tons of nickel-iron, to make that stupen-
dous rocket jet. It had been timed well enough
to react at right angles to the orbit.
Drake himself had no way of telling what he
had accomplished without spending laborious
hours with the instruments and the methods that
Earth-born man had invented to extend the range
of feeble senses never adapted to space. But he
knew that any change would be self-evident to
Rob McGee, as obvious as one plus one.
“Was it changed?” McGee turned nimbly from
the periscope with a gentle smile creased into his
leather face. “About a hundred times as much as
necessary!”
Ann clapped her hands together. “Then Free-
donia’s ours!”
“I don’t know.” The victorious giant was
doubtful. “We’ve moved the rock, but the title
to it is a thing to be settled by the officers of the
Guard and the lawyers and politicians at Pallas-
port — and they’re all about as tricky as seetee
itself.”
The first brief elation was ebbing, and the re-
action of effort and strain came back upon him in
crushing fatigue. All the buoyant force of that
mighty purpose was drained out of him. He was
old again. But still the job wasn’t done.
“Can you get von Sudenhorst?” A slow, heavy
giant, he turned to Rob McGee. “We must report
COLLISION ORBIT
105
what we’ve done. The change in the orbit doesn’t
mean a thing, unless they know we did it.”
Hours later, still too tense and tired to sleep,
Drake was resting on the bunk in Rob McGee’s
cabin, when the photophone picked up the cruiser.
Quietly, Rob McGee reported how they had moved
Freedonia. And Ann relented enough to speak to
Kurt von Sudenhorst — for she no longer felt
afraid. Drake heard her voice, through the open
ladder well.
“Oh, yes, Kurt, we’re all safe. ... Of course we
did — can’t you see how much it’s changed? . . .
Didn’t Captain McGee just tell you how we did
it? . . . That’s the way it was. Mr. Drake used the
shaft for a rocket motor, and about five tons of
contraterrene iron for fuel. ... Of course it made
a thousand-kilometer jet, and altered the orbit
very suddenly! What else would you expect?
. . . Certainly! Mr. Drake always said there was
power in seetee. You don’t seem to realize it,
Kurt, but you have just seen a historic event — the
first successful use of contraterrene matter. Now
seetee is going to make a lot of changes — just wait
and see! . . . And this report will say we were
successful? . . . Don’t be stupid, Kurt! We
changed the orbit, didn’t we? We averted the
collision. That’s all the notice of intention said
we were going to do. ... Of course you’ll do your
duty, Kurt. That’s all we want. . . Naturally
you can’t grant us the title. That’s up to the
claims office, in Pallasport. . . . Then good-by,
Kurt. ... Yes. we’re coming back to Obania. . . .
No, I’m afraid not. . . . No. . . . Good-by!”
By that time the fire storm had completely
ceased. They stayed on the asteroid long enough
to salvage the undamaged supplies and equipment
from the battered camp. McGee found one of
the iron cores from the shaft, and towed it to a
high point near the smoking, glowing pit. They
welded it upright there, for a legal monument,
and posted upon it a copy of the notice of inten-
tion. Ann herself took green fluorescent paint
to splash it with tall, hopeful letters, spelling
Freedonia.
The return to Obania took only sixteen hours,
for it was not so distant now. Drake slept a
dozen hours. He rose once more a giant, lifted
with the triumph of his purpose. He couldn’t see
into the future. He had no way of knowing how
long the real conquest of contraterrene matter
would take, or who would be the final victor. But
he knew that his old dream had turned a page of
history. The moving of Freedonia had opened a
new era.
and on the
newsstands
The best love fiction of the year has been
selected for the new LOVE STORY AN-
NUAL! It’s a romantic must.
STRANGE HUSBAND, a novel by EDNA E. DAVIES.
BROADWAY DAWN, a story by MAYSIE GREIG—
and many other stories by top-notch authors. It's your
key to summer romance . . . get your copy now. If
your dealer can't supply you, fill out the coupon below.
25c — on sale at all newsstands — in U. S. only.
LOVE STORK AIMU1L
79 Seventh Avenue, New York City
Inclosed is twenty-five cents (this offer
not good outside of U. S.). Kindly send
me a copy of LOVE STORY ANNUAL.
NAME '.
The Guard cruiser had returned to the base on
Obania, long ahead of them. As the Good-by Jane
came in to land on the tiny, convex field, the
photophone flashed above the control tower, an-
ADDRESS
CITY
STATE
106
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
nouncing that Drake was requested to call at
Commander von Sudenhorst’s office, immediately.
A few young guardsmen, off duty, gathered
about the lock of the rusty little tug. Perhaps the
most of them were interested in nothing more than
another glimpse of Ann. But all of them had
heard what Drake had done, and he could see a
difference in their glances. He was now a little
more than the old, hopeless dreamer.
Kurt von Sudenhorst, however, was blind to any
change. Nothing short of annihilation, it seemed,
could ever penetrate the smug completeness of his
ordered military world. In the metal precision of
his office, he received Drake with the same stiff
and arrogant formality.
“Commander, you wanted me to call?”
Sitting erect behind the cold polish of his
chromium desk, von Sudenhorst reached for one
of the papers that reposed in strict military rows,
and looked up at Drake with hard blank eyes. His
flat voice lifted, as if giving a command.
“Mr. Drake, my report of your unexpected suc-
cess in safely altering the collision orbit of HSM
T-89-AK-44 has been duly made to Pallasport.
I have received a reply. The Guard has been
instructed by the Mandate claims office to inform
you and Captain McGee, acting as the legal agents
of Mr. Bruce O’Banion, that your claim to said
asteroid has been recognized, in consequence of
your service. The title will be granted to you.”
Drake swayed a little, gulping, “Thank you,
commander !”
“No thanks are necessary,” von Sudenhorst told
him shortly. “I am merely acting in the line of
duty.” His stiff face frowned, and he caught his
breath as if to add something else. But his iron
jaw closed, and he rose like a black automaton.
“That is all, Mr. Drake. I understand that Pallas-
port is calling you, if you will go to the photo-
phone office.”
Drake thanked him again, out of habit, and hur-
ried to receive his call. Seated in the little booth,
he waited breathlessly. It took an endless minute
for his voice to span the eighteen million kilome-
ters to Pallasport, to say that he was ready. The
light-winged reply took another eternal minute
before he heard the eager, slightly incoherent voice
of Rick:
“Hello, dad! I’ve just heard about it, and I
think it’s wonderful — what you did, I mean.
You’ve showed the System that you were right
about seetee, all the time. As for me, I wish I
had seen it sooner — I mean, when I came back to
the Mandate, and went to work for Interplanet.”
His deep young voice hurried on, filling up the
two precious minutes: “But what I called to tell
you, dad — I’m through with Interplanet. I guess
you were right about them. They won’t let me do
anything — real, I mean, and big — like terraforming
Pallas. And it made me plenty sore the way they
kept Cap’n Rob from getting that unit.”
Tears stung Drake’s hollow eyes, and he heard
the quick, eager voice through a sudden distant
roaring in his ears. “I hear you’ve got title to
the asteroid, dad. I’m awfully glad. Say, dad —
Cap’n Rob told me you wanted the rock to use for
a seetee lab. I want to come out and help you
build it — I mean, if you still want me. How about
it, dad?”
Rick’s two minutes were gone. Alone in the
stuffy little booth, Drake was suddenly weak and
trembling. There was a roaring in his ears. At
first he didn’t hear the operator say that he could
speak. He wasted half a precious minute. Then
his voice came queer and hoarse — but still he man-
aged to tell Rick how about it.
A tall and mighty giant, years lifted from him
with the power of his proven dream, Drake strode
back to the rusty little office in the town. Things
were going to be different, now. They would
need a new sign, now, with Rick’s name on it.
Seetee was doomed to yield at last, to the spatial
engineers.
The next evening, Ann O’Banion gave a modest
little banquet in the long glass-and-silver dining
room of her father’s ancient mansion. It was to
celebrate the winning of Freedonia. She even
asked Kurt von Sudenhorst, out of sheer elation.
But old Jim Drake forgot to come. He was busy
at his desk, designing the induction furnace and
magnetic hammer with which he hoped to make
the first successful forging of contraterrene iron.
THE END.
yours f« EEl
• Wtet
to to ffl
B OMBS may fall — but people who trip over unseen
things always fall.
Here’s the answer of American science — 'the blackout
bulb that lets you see but can’t be seen — and it’s yours
FREE.
It’s a new invention ... a bulb that fits any ordinary
110-volt socket, AC or DC — draws less current than
the smallest incandescent light, and has no filament
to burn out. It works like the fluorescent tube-lights
. . . but needs no special equipment! It will burn for
1,000 to 2,000 hours without failure.
Officially approved by U. S. army for blackout use . . .
it continues to glow for hours if electrical power sup-
ply is damaged.
In addition — it gives invisible ultraviolet light that
makes fluorescent paint — invisible in ordinary light —
become a glowing beacon! Apply it to that first stair
tread, around a doorknob! It’s the finest answer to
the problem of blackouts that American lighting engi-
neers have found ! It’s yours with just a year’s sub-
scription to ASTOUNDING.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
79 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
Inclosed it two and a half dollars (this offer good In U. S.
only and not good when sent through a subscription agency)
for a year's subscription to ASTOUNDING. Kindly send
me my free blackout bulb and instructions how to use it.
NAME
ADDRESS
CITY , .'.
STATE
108
II TIMES TO COME
“Waldo,” one of the last Anson MacDonald
stories we’re apt to get for some time, will lead
off the August Astounding. It was, as a matter
of fact, a pleasant surprise to get this manuscript
— completed during the interim between going up
for active duty and receiving an assignment. Mac-
Donald is now, very definitely, engaged full-time
in pounding Japs and Nazis instead of typewriter
keys.
The story has some nicely unusual set-ups —
as is to be expected of a MacDonald story — includ-
ing one that certainly sounds as though the yarn
had strayed from its proper pasture, Unknown
Worlds. The main problem of the yarn is: Just
what is it that a certain Pennsylvania hex doctor
did to a “broomstick” that made it fly, when the
best technicians had failed. It may occur to you
that that isn’t science-fiction, and definitely not
science; definitely, it is. The “broomstick” isn’t
quite the usual kind; it’s entirely inclosed in
transparent plastic streamlining, and — Well,
read the yarn.
For that matter, Waldo isn’t the usual sort of
hero. He’s a fat slob, so weak he can’t — literally
— lift a hand. All in all, a genuinely unusual set-up.
This issue contains the first series of Probability
Zero stories contributed entirely by readers. They
began coming in in a very slow trickle about the
time the June issue was being set up ; in the month
interval, a nice supply showed up, and are printed
herewith. We want more — a lot more. And we
want votes, because the prizes for our best liars
will be distributed solely on the basis of reader
votes. The prizes are, in case you’ve forgotten,
$20 for the best, $10 for second place, and $5 for
third. The contest is open to any and all who
think they can string a taller story than the next
guy; the sole conditions being that the finished
opus be not more than seven hundred fifty words
long. (There’s no lower limit; if you can out-
prevaricate most people in ten words, we’ll gladly
give you a prize equivalent to a $2-a-word rate.)
It should be typed, double-spaced — and please
don’t drive me to fits of futility by leaving your
name and address off. I can’t use ’em if they
can’t be assigned a home. And it must, of course,
be original, and science-fictional in background.
The general idea is that the little item shall
sound plausible on the surface, but contain a flat
violation of known scientific law. Malcolm
Jameson’s story, “Pig Trap,” in the April 1942
Astounding, for instance, depended on freezing a
shadow; that, definitely and explicitly, lived up to
the department title of “Probability Zero.” And
all — professional or amateur — are invited to do
likewise! The Editor.
i —
THE AIALYTIEAL LABORATORY
NOTICE PLEASE — In your Analytical Labora-
tory notes for the current issue, please be sure to
rate the Probability Zero stories in your order of
preference. The first prize of $20, second prize of
$10 and third prize of $5 will be distributed to the
winners selected on the basis of your votes.
The stories in the May issue seem to have had
a fight for position, as the concentration of point-
scores indicates — they range between 2.0 and 4.5,
indicating a real scattering of opinion. As of
make-up day, they stand:
Place Story
Author Point
score
1 .
Beyond This Horizon
Anson MacDonald
2.00
2.
Asylum
A. E. van Vogt
2.10
3.
Push of a Finger
Alfred Bester
2.53
4.
Foundation
Isaac Asimov
3.21
5.
Forever Is Not So
Long
F. Anton Reeds
4.50
The Editor.
109
"THE STRANGE CASE OF THE MISSING HERO”
By Frank Holby
Lucien Hazard, greatest criminologist of the
twenty-fifth century, entered the door marked:
Sebastian Lelong
Editor ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
“Come in, come in, Mr. Hazard,” boomed out
Mr. Lelong. “You’re just as I’ve always pictured
you: tall, thin, dark, and with a lean-and-hungry
look,” he chuckled.
Lucien smiled dourly. “I assume that you are
in need of my analytical ability.”
“That is precisely why you are here,” nodded
Lelong. “Sit down and I will tell you all about
my troubles.
“Our company is publishing the decennial set
of encyclopedia. Our set is finished, but for a
portion of one book — G to GH.
“Naturally, we have devoted several hundred
pages to the immortal martyr, Elliot Gallant.”
“Naturally,” said Lucien.
“We have a summary of the three hundred
pages ready,” said Sebastian Lelong. “Let me read
it to you:
“ ‘Elliot Gallant’s early childhood remains a
dark mystery. He showed a sign of his great in-
tellect at the age of four, when he defeated Isaac
Morphy of Lower New York for the chess cham-
pionship of the United States. Shortly after, he
was' registered in the great Earth Orphan Asylum
in Los Angeles, California.
“ ‘He attended the State schools, and graduated
from the University of Greater California with
high honors.
“ ‘Elliot Gallant gained his commission as a
gyroplane captain in the second Intermediate War.
He fought fearlessly and well for his country.
several times opposing formations of enemy
draftoships alone and unaided. He was taken
prisoner on the Island Fortress of Castleroux,
but escaped to lead a group of peasants to freedom
and victory.
“ ‘Above all things . . . above all events of this
century, the incredible bravery of the man stands
out like a beacon light of courage. His feats of
heroism in the third War of Salvation are legend.
“ ‘Almost singlehanded, Elliot Gallant’s great
leadership gave us victory in the, what is to be
hoped, final war.
“‘After the great war, science progressed rap-
idly in peaceful fields. A time machine, the first
of its kind, was built. Who would go on the
perilous journey to previous time? Millions of
followers, led by Job Buckley and Woody Jacker-
man demanded that Elliot Gallant be chosen to
go. And so he was.
“ ‘Cheering crowds watched Elliot Gallant climb
into the time machine. Elliot saluted the specta-
tors, gazed fondly at the gigantic colossus of
the superscience buildings, and pulled the starting
lever.
“ ‘He was supposed to return from the past to
his people in two years, but mortal man saw no
more of Elliot Gallant.’ ”
“Very interesting,” broke in Lucien, “but what
has this got to do with me?”
Sebastian Lelong spoke softly. “Our Board
wants you to go back into time and discover what
became of Elliot Gallant. If you can discover
this, we will include the facts in our new set of
books. Our books will be the best sellers of all
time. Millions of beings want to know what hap-
pened to Elliot Gallant, and we propose to tell
them. We already have unearthed several facts
previously unknown about Elliot Gallant. For
instance, only seven people in the Universe, the
members of the Board and us, know that Elliot
no
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Gallant’s mother was a woman named Mary
Moresbe.
“You must be careful, however. The indomi-
table Elliot Gallant undoubtedly died, fighting
scores of bloodthirsty pirates, or slaying some
ferocious unearthly monster. It is certain that
he died, fighting against insurmountable odds.”
“I thought that time travel was forbidden after
his disappearance?” queried Lucien.
“We’ve got the machine for you, never mind
how,” snapped Lelong.
“Very well, I’ll do it,” said Lucien.
After six long, dreary, restless months Lucien,
Hazard stepped into the room, through the door
marked: (
Sebastian Lelong
Editor ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
"Did you find out anything?” shouted Lelong.
“Elliot Gallant, strongest of the strong, died by
his own hand,” said Lucien.
“Impossible,” snapped Lelong.
“Elliot Gallant went back into time thirty years.
He liked the peaceful days of yesteryear. He
married, had a son. He didn’t want to come back
into the present, and be the hero of the populace.”
“But why did he kill himself?” asked Lelong.
“Elliot Gallant’s son won the chess champion-
ship of the United States at the age of four.
Elliot Gallant married a woman named Mary
Moresbe. Does that mean anything to you?”
whispered Lucien.
“You mean?”
“Exactly. Elliot Gallant killed himself when he
found out, with his great mind power, that he was
his own father!”
DE GUSTIBUS
By Randall Hale
The fierce glare of the sun beat into his eyes
and blfnded him so that he could see nothing
against its brilliance. After a few moments he
turned reluctantly away. There was nothing to
be seen, anyway, he knew. It had been only hope
— or the desperation of one who is dying — that
had brought him out. Resignedly, he trudged
back into the air lock of the highly polished tung-
sten dome and swung the door shut behind him.
As the pressure in the lock hissed up to Earth
atmosphere, he thought again of the worn-out
spacesuit that, somehow, had gotten packed in
what he had believed to be the last crate of food
on Mercury. It was now four days since he had
discovered it — and the regular supply ship from
Earth wasn’t due for fifty days more.
The pressure was up, and he stepped slowly
out of his spacesuit, leaving it right there on the
floor. What good would neatness do him now —
he’d be dead before the ship came, anyway. He
couldn’t contact Earth to tell them of his plight,
for Mercury was too close to the magnetic dis-
turbances of the sun for an interplanetary radio
to operate. And he was the only man on the
planet. Soon, not even he would be alive.
He opened the inner door and stepped into the
tiny building in which he had lived for three
years. The building in which he was to die. Man
can live but forty days without food. He had
already lived four. The ship wouldn’t come for
fifty more. The inescapable mathematics of the
situation stared him bleakly in the face.
He walked past the long rows of bottles and
jars on the laboratory shelves and into his small
living quarters. He sat down on the buna rubber
couch, buried his head in his hands, and tried to
think the thing through.
The station was well equipped with vitamin and
mineral tablets, he knew. But, hang it all, a man
couldn’t live for fifty days on pills! And there
were none of the usual foods in the laboratory.
Carbohydrates, fats, proteins — nothing. And that
was that.
He tried to analyze the problem from a different
standpoint. What essentially did man live on?
Just carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen.
Hydrogen and oxygen — water. There were three
huge buna-lined steel tanks full of water buried
in the Mercurian soil, far below the station. That
was all right. But the carbon and nitrogen?
Coal and air. And a man couldn’t live on either
of them. There was his problem — the carbon and
nitrogen. How to get them?
Thoughts of the fried chicken his mother had
made back on Earth, before he’d ever come to this
God-forsaken planet as an observer, came to his
mind. He thrust the ideas from him resolutely.
He had to think —
He got up and paced nervously about the small
room and into the adjoining laboratory.
The supply ship landed with a very slight jar
on the arid Mercurian crust, about fifty yards
from the observatory. Its glittering praseo-
dymium-vanadium rocket tubes gave one last spurt
of bright-orange flame and died. The spacesuited
pilot leaped out through the ship’s air lock and
ran across the strip of hot, dry sand separating
the ship from the station.
Just as he was about to press the automatic
outside lock control of the station it swung open
and another suited figure stepped out to greet
him. The two men talked through their helmet
phones.
“How are you, old man?” said the pilot.
“Pretty hungry,” replied a hollow voice.
“Haven’t had a meal in eight weeks. Ran out of
food and thought you’d never come. Come on in.
We’ll talk in the station.”
As he led the other into the air lock and closed
PROBABILITY ZERO!
Ill
the outer door, he heard a low whistle from the
pilot.
“How under the sun did you manage to stay
alive?”
“Simple enough. All man needs to live on
besides vitamins and minerals are carbon, hydro-
gen, nitrogen, and oxygen. I lived on water and
potassium cyanide for fifty days.”
THAT MYSTERIOUS BOMB RAID
By Bob Tucker
Four or five of us were sitting around in
Hinkle’s cellar one evening drinking Hinkle’s
beer, littering Hinkle’s floor with cigarette stubs
and talking about the war.
We were discussing ways and means of ending
the whole mess as quickly as possible, like so
many armchair politicians, and getting nowhere
fast. Someone always seemed to be able to pick
out the weak spots in the most plausible-sounding
plan.
One of Hinkle’s neighbors, a skinny, red-headed
chap I’d never seen before, mentioned the popular
theory now making the rounds of the town: that
of dumping several loads of the army’s biggest
bombs into some of their — Japan’s — nastiest and
noisiest volcanoes and tipping the whole blamed
island over into the ocean.
At this, Hinkle glanced across the room at me
and raised his eyebrows in question. I nodded
assent. He cleared his throat and out of polite-
ness — and Hinkle’s stock of beer — everyone else
stopped talking.
“It won’t be necessary,” he announced in the
smoke-laden air. “To drop explosives in the vol-
canoes, I mean. You see, we’ve already bombed
Tokyo itself. Blown it clear off the map!”
The skinny redhead picked up a newspaper off
the floor and scanned the front page. He didn’t
call Hinkle a liar, just dropped the paper after a
few seconds and contemplated his beer silently.
“It’s the truth!” I seconded Hinkle. “Honest
it is. I was with him at the time. Hinkle and von
Schach and myself. We bombed Tokyo sometime
in 1931. Only it hasn’t blown up yet. But it will
soon.”
“Perhaps” — Hinkle cleared his throat again — “I
had better make that clear. You all know von
Schach, don’t you? He’s in charge of the science
department at the Unversity.
“Well, sir, right after this war started, the three
of us” — he indicated me and the absent von Schach
with a wave of the hand — “decided something
drastic ought to be done. We didn’t like the way
the army was running the thing.
“Von has a time machine.” The glances thrown
his way didn’t deter him one whit. “Yessir, he
really has. It will travel through space as well.
Well, sir, one day Von and I thought of a plan
and we decided to put it into operation. We went
down into his laboratory one night and filled a
fifty-gallon oil drum with the most powerful liquid
explosive existent.”
He smiled and waved his hand. “Have another
beer. I’m sorry I can’t reveal the nature of that
explosive, but it’s Von’s secret. The formula is
in the hands of the War Department now.
“Anyway, we stowed that oil drum aboard the
time traveler and took off. Von handled the con-
trols and Jack was along to help me with the drum.
How that little machine could travel ! I remember
barely catching my breath from the suddenness
of the take-off, when Von announced that we were
already over the Pacific and speeding through 1938
at a lightning clip !
“Our plan was to go back to about 1900, at which
time we thought the bomb would nip in the bud
even wishful thoughts of making war on the
United States. Well, sir, that little machine trav-
eled so fast that before we could stop it we found
ourselves in the last century. Somewhere in the
1890s. We were going to drop our oil drum there
but I happened to remember that my grandfather
was spending his honeymoon in Tokyo sometime
during that decade” — he spread his hands and
shrugged — “and, gentlemen, I couldn’t very well
kill my own grandfather.
“So von Schach started the machine going again,
coming forward through time, while Jack and I
stood by the open door to push the drum over-
board as we sped through a likely-looking year.
Again that blamed traveler tricked us!
“ ‘Shove it out, quick!’ von Schach yelled in my
ear. ‘It’s already 1930!’
“Jack and I shoved it overboard. Would you
believe it, another year had gone by while we were
getting it out the door! The last we saw of it,
it was falling like a . . . like a . . . like an oil
drum, and drifting forward.
“That last escaped us as being significant at the
time. We didn’t think of it until we had returned
here to 1942 and read the newspapers. Tokyo was
still there, waging war.
“Then the full facts smacked us in the face.
Our oil drum hasn’t yet landed on Tokyo, chrono-
logically speaking. You see, gentlemen, we were
speeding forward through time at so fast a clip
that when we dumped the bomb overboard, it not
only drifted forward with the motion of the ship
according to the laws of gravitation, but drifted
through time as well!”
He paused dramatically and swept a beer to his
mouth. I leaned back with the satisfied feeling of
a good story well told.
“Any day now,” Hinkle finished, “you’ll read in
the papers of Tokyo being blown off the map by
a tremendous, mysterious force. That, gentlemen,
will be our bomb, picking a place and a time to
112
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
land at last. It may be next week or it may be
next year. From our calculations we know only
that it will land somewhere in this decade.”
ABOUT QUARRELS. ABOUT THE PAST
By John Pierce
Quarrels? No, I don’t know where Quarrels is.
But I suppose the answer is, he isn’t. Last I
heard of him he was hobnobbing in Egypt. No, he
didn’t have any trouble with the quota or with
tourist restrictions. This was in the past, or a
past. It used to be in a past, anyway, even if it
isn’t any more.
Of course there is more than one past. Hun-
dreds? More like infinity. At least that’s what
Quarrels told me. They’re all a good deal alike
a little way back — that is, where not much data
is missing. But they’re a lot different way back
where Quarrels was. It’s like the near and far
futures.
Well, I can explain it in a way. It fits in with
wave mechanics and the uncertainty principle.
Quarrels said. You know we can’t predict “the”
future. We can’t gather all the data. It’s not only
humanly impossible, it’s physically impossible,
scientfically impossible, that is. Predicting “the”
future has no real meaning. Operationally, there
is no unique future. There are just a lot of
probable ones.
Well, did you realize that this uncertainty holds
for the past, too? I hadn’t until Quarrels pointed
it out. All we have is a lot of incomplete data.
Is it just because we’re stupid? Not at all. We
can’t find a unique wave function. Any one we
set up fits to a certain degree of approximation,
and how closely it can fit is determined by certain
limits of observability. That’s almost quotes, by
the way.
Anyway, you can see what it means. Any past
consistent with available data is just as real as
any other. That leaves a lot of leeway; that’s
what Quarrels found when he started time travel-
ing.
Of course Quarrels went time-traveling. How
did you think he got to Egypt? I don’t know how
it worked, and he wouldn’t even let me see his
stuff. He took it with him, and now it’s in Egypt.
No, I don’t mean that, I mean that the same thing
happened to it that happened to Quarrels. Or
maybe it didn’t happen — it isn’t in a past.
You see, Quarrels was sort of romantic. He
read, “The Masque of Queen Bersabe,” and started
out to visit Nephertiti in Egypt. He had to try
lots of the pasts before he found one in which she
lived up to expectations. And from the notes he
shot back to me . . . forward, that is . . . she
must have been a honey, and pretty approachable,
too.
The notes? Oh, they disappeared when they
stopped coming. That’s how I guessed what had
happened. Otherwise I wouldn’t have connected
the excavation with Quarrels at all.
Of course I mean Chunken Bey’s excavation.
Well, I can’t explain exactly. But you see what
happened. That tomb was of Nephertiti’s period,
and its contents enlarged our data. Something in
it was inconsistent with the particular past Quar-
rels was in. No, I don’t know what. It’s hard to
say just what happened to Quarrels. I suppose
you could put it this way ; he was some place that
wasn’t any more. So he isn’t any more.
No, I don’t think there’d be any trace left. No,
no body.
THE QWERTY OF HROTHGAR
By R. Creighton Buck
We waited patiently as Captain Nadie Esta-
Aqui contemplated the three-dimensional chess-
board, his white goatee bobbing as he chewed his
pipe. Finally, he moved his knight from level two
to level four, and leered at his opponent.
“Discovered check, and mate!”
The man across from him nodded sadly; no one
ever beat the captain! He began to set up the
pieces again.
“As I was saying,” the captain went on, “there
I was, stranded on the planet Hrothgar, with noth-
ing but my wits and my standard service equip-
ment — no weapons but a knife — and face-to-face
with a ferocious, man-eating Qwerty! The enor-
mous six-legged beast at once started toward me.
Luckily, I have always been a fast runner, for that
alone saved me from instant death! For hours
we tore across the barren moor, and the Qwerty
steadily gained on me until I could hear its ar-
mored snout creaking at the hinge in eager antici-
pation of a meal. I had but one chance, of reaching
the outpost of Rollinstane alive — to keep out of
the animal’s clutches until nightfall.”
Captain Nadie stretched out his hand and ad-
vanced his king’s pawn to attack his opponent’s
rook.
“As you know, the Qwerty is incapable of action
at night. If I could last until nightfall, the beast
would fall asleep and I could escape; unfortu-
nately, there was one difficulty. During the short
night the temperature drops to — ten Absolute. I
would freeze solid before I had gone ten feet!
But I had a plan.
“At last the light of the sun began to wane.
Instantly, the massive Qwerty skidded to a halt,
three of its six legs poised in midair. There was
no way I could pierce the four-foot hide of the
beast, but at least I could prevent it from following
me. In the gathering dusk, I got out my can of
aluminum paint and applied a heavy coat to the
Qwerty, until every inch of its hide gleamed silver.
This done, I turned to the job of making a shelter.
I touched a match to the left-over paint, and into
PROBABILITY ZERO!
113
the resulting flame I poured one of my remaining
flasks of water. A huge cloud of steam arose, and
instantly froze in the icy air, forming a large
chunk of hard, crystalline material — perfect for
insulation. I soon cut enough blocks to build a
small hut. Just as the first flakes of frozen nitro-
gen began to float down, I crawled into the hut,
dragging after me a large slab of the congealed
steam. I then proceeded to warm the porous slab
until it became spongy, and quite elastic, and upon
this improvised mattress, I passed a comfortable
night. The next morning, I set out for Rollin-
stane.” ,
“But what about the Qwerty?” interrupted
someone.
“Oh, yes, the Qwerty! Well, you see, the shiny
paint prevented the sunlight from striking its hide,
and so it continued to sleep!”
Captain Nadie captured the pawn, accepting the
gambit.
“Is that all to the story, sir?”
The captain smiled reflectively, and removed the
opposing rook.
“Not quite all. Before I’d gone more than ten
miles I heard pounding hoofbeats behind me, and
turned to see the same Qwerty in the distance,
headed straight at me ! I realized that one of the
sudden rainstorms had blown up and washed off
the paint!
“This time it looked like I was cornered. In
front of me, my path was blocked by a wide river
of molten metal that poured out of a nearby vol-
cano; and, even as I watched, another stream of
molten metal began to flow toward me ! If I stood
still the glowing mass would burn me alive; if I
ran, the charging Qwerty would catch me ! What
was I to do?”
With a sure sense of drama, the captain took
time out to tamp his pipe, and make another move
before continuing.
“Well, sir, I waited until that stream was almost
on top of me, and then I ran as fast as I could to-
ward the river of molten metal, dragging my feet
behind me. This scooped out a deep ditch, down
which the stream flowed. It poured into the river
and there was a loud explosion. I ran across the
smoking sand where the molten metal of the river
had been, and then turned around just in time to
see the Qwerty being cut to mincemeat!”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir.”
“You see,” the captain explained with a quizzical
grin, “the mixture of the metals formed an alloy
that melted at a much lower temperature than
either of the metals. As a result the stuff simply
boiled away, leaving the river bed dry! The
vaporized metal rose several hundred feet, and then
solidified into sharp, knifelike crystals that fell on
the Qwerty, killing it instantly!
“And,” he exclaimed gleefully, “I think that’s
checkmate again!”
EAT, DRINK AND BE WARY
By Ray Bradbury
Believe me, Doc, believe me. I ain’t no, ordinary
ha-ha, ho-ho, hee-heeby-jeeber. Don’t marry me
to that straight-jacket. Listen. I got problems. I’m
in a bad way. Lemme tell you:
It’s like this. On Venus, I’m diplomatic pan-
bottom for the Solar. Comes an invitation from
the Venusians: “A banquet takes place from
August 22nd to September 3rd, inclusive.” Being
such a high flounder as I am I couldn’t refuse. I
tried to shove the job off on someone else, but no
takers. You see, it’s this way; a Venusian banquet
lasts a week or ten days, sometimes more, with
eight meals a day and twenty courses to a meal.
A Venusian’s hell-fire metabolism can furnace this
stuff. Putting it conservatively, as much as they
intended tossing on my platter, would feed a herd
of bull elephants. An Earthman just couldn’t
take it. He’d croak after the second course.
What could I do? Refuse? Not on your tin
busbar. Diplomacy, my dear Kinnison. If I craw-
fished, there’d ’a’ been an angular stink and a war
between Earth and Venus that would make the
cows give bourbon with freckles. I had to go.
Just like Morgan, Herdon and Merrill before me,
in years past. These shindigs are annual riots,
with food and officials going down right and left.
Every other diplomat has been carried out stiff
as a piston rod for twenty years, keeping the
Venusians happy.
So there I am going to my own funeral.
But, six weeks before the dinner I bounce over
to Professor Klopt. You remember him? Fiddles
with all the sciences. Likes investigating geo-
logical slime deposits. Maybe that’s why they
call him the “mud” scientist. Pardon.
Professor Klopt fixes me an invention. He is a
specialist with Fitzgerald’s Contraction Theory.
He makes me a belt with a switch, which I carry
around my stomach. It’s called a contraction belt.
I go to the banquet. Ten thousand Venusians,
with their huge bloated bodies and little pinheads,
greet me as I sit at the head of a table ten blocks
long. The first course consists of whale on toast.
Second and third courses were: Broiled rib of
mastodon, pickled dinosaur flanks, and a dozen
eggs the size of footballs. They trucked the food
in on moving vans and romped out for more. It’s
the biggest hunk of table-d’hote I ever seen.
I ate it. I ate it all, every bit of it. Fourteen
days I crammed down froithboinders, rubber
plants, antimacassars and liquor. The Venusians
cheered. I came through with flying colors, and
Venus signed a peace treaty and called off the
banquets for twenty years in my honor.
How’d I do it? Well, Klopt made me that neat
little belt around my stomach with a switch con-
trol. I flicked this and my stomach slipped into
114
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
second, third and then the fourth dimension. Free-
wheeling all the way. Only, it wasn’t my whole
stomach, just the inside vacuum of it.
Now, in the fourth dimension everything travels
much faster than here. It’s like space, and my
stomach hurtled through it like our sun hurtles
through our void. Same speed, maybe more. O. K.
I’m here, my stomach is there, both places are
parallel, only my stomach meets the full force and
play and actions of an object falling through
space. And, according to the Fitzgerald Theory,
it contracts because of the speed. It contracts un-
believably. Not the lining of the stomach, no.
But the inside space. It gets so small, and all
the junk I’m eating gets so small that at the end
of two weeks of stuffing my stomach is just com-
fortably filled, thanks to Fitzgerald. The food
contracted, I remained normal. Simple.
That’s how I fooled the Venusians, Doc. But
I’ve been worried. Mebbe I need bicarbonate.
Lotsa things to consider. Will I have to go around
the rest of my life like this? ’Cause, if I do, then
I’ll have to eat and eat all the time, to make up
for the contraction.
I’m afraid to bring my stomach back to the
present, ’cause if I did — KA-WOW ! — all that
food, tons and tons of it, would expand again —
BOOM! Just like that! There wouldn’t be
nuthin’ left of me, would there?
So what’ll I do?
Hey, Doc, why you look so funny? Keep away,
don’t touch me, Doc, I’m telling the truth! Don’t
undress me, Doc; don’t take my contraction belt
away ; don’t take it off me ; don’t throw that switch !
Leave the belt alone! You’ll blow us all to King-
dom Come! Don’t you believe me, Doc?
Stop. STOP—
THE FLOATER
By Selden G. Thomas
A group of armchair strategists were discussing
the relative merits of the new X-23 type light-
rocket bomber and the old one that it was super-
seding. A corpulent gentleman with a neat Van-
dyke and an atrocious cigar mumbled something
inarticulately from the depths of his overstuffed
red-leather, and a younger man answered.
“I don’t agree with you, George. The X-23 has
a vast number of features which make it well worth
the higher cost of production. Take, for example,
the retractable light-wings. They give it an im-
mense cruising range, compared with the X-22.
Of course, if it happens to be caught with those
out, it has a much lesser maneuverability, and
might find itself out of wingless range of any
base and with no workable wings. But then,
the new detectors ought to take care of any danger
from enemy fighting vessels.”
After a moment or two of silence a florid-faced
gentleman blew a cigarette ash off the lapel of his
expensive coat and countered:
“But think of the weight of the wings! There
must be a lot of fuel wasted in take-offs and land-
ings. Then there are the delicate instruments to
keep in order — many more in the X-23 than in the
X-22. No. If it comes to real fighting, I’d rather
be at the controls of an X-22 any day.”
The major, whom the uninitiate always accepted
as a final authority on such matters because of his
slightly superior smile, then cleared his throat
and received the floor by tacit recognition.
“These modern rockets,” he commenced, “are
hardly comparable with the ones we used in the
last war. If one of those gadgets goes back on
you, you’re lost. In the old days it was different.
If there were two tubes left, one girder, and a
gun, you could still fight. For sheer durability I’d
take one of the old L-93s any time.
“Why I remember once I spotted a blockade
runner when patrolling in my L-93 and hopped
onto his tail. He was armed with about every-
thing you can think of, from dis-rays to nitro-gas
guns. In two minutes the ship was riddled like
a sieve and the air was whistling out of the cabin
twice as fast as the tanks could replace it. But I
climbed into my suit and fought on.
“Pretty soon they found that they couldn’t get
me or any of the manuals, since they were behind
the thickest of the armor, in the nose, along with
me. And so they started shooting at the tubes.
They managed to blast them, one by one, but
meanwhile I was doing some fearful execution
myself.
“I had the satisfaction of seeing them take the
last long dive before I started nosing down
myself.
“I was now over the night side, and, what with
the blackout, I had no idea where I was. But I
balanced her down on her tail, and eventually saw
the ocean below me. So I shucked off my suit and
used my ‘umbrella.’ I landed O. K., and swam
awhile.
“Meantime the ship hit and went down with a
terrific hissing, the hot tubes boiling in the water.
But it wasn’t ten minutes before it bobbed up to
the surface again. I swam over to it and got up
on top.
“So I lay there, high and dry on the ship, for five
days before I was finally rescued. But anyway,
that shows you how the L-93s would stay by you
to the last ditch. They had one whale of a lot
of durability.”
The younger man wasn’t completely satisfied,
however.
“If the ship was riddled through and through
with holes as you say, major,” he asked, “how did
it stay afloat?”
“It was made of pure potassium, which is lighter
than water.”
115
BRASS TACKS
Van Vogt has another Ezwal story coming up.
Dear Mr. Campbell:
“Beyond This Horizon” is one of the most logi-
cal and complete presentations of a future civiliza-
tion I’ve yet seen.
As for the other stories, van Vogt’s variant of
his intelligent monster theme places a well-assured
second. Refreshingly different from the preced-
ing two of this type, it is almost as good as “Black
Destroyer”; the fact that it is only the second best
— and not even a close second — shows the degree
of Astounding’s improvement.
Hubbard’s “Strain” takes third place, being just
a shade better than “The Eagles Gather.” The
added touch that gave that yarn a slight superior-
ity was, perhaps, the ironic twist at the end. Kel-
leam’s yarn seemed a disappointment after “Rust,”
but that was an exceptionally good story, and this
one is on the present high average of Astounding’s
stories. Both of these two tales by Kelleam, curi-
ously enough, contain a certain end-of-civilization
quality; almost a mood of defeatism.
“If You’re So Smart — ” and “Monopoly” are also
fairly good, but Shurtleff’s tale is not the sort of
thing that belongs in ASF. Well-written hack,
maybe, but still hack — and that’s the sort of thing
your magazine has been trying to steer away from.
The article is good as usual, though I found it
rather uninteresting — for purely personal reasons.
Brass Tacks seems to be gradually improving,
though there is still no such general controversy
as Author de Camp wistfully wished for in the
July, ’41, issue. Or is that a minor revolt I see
brewing against Skylark Smith? If so, pardon me
while I join in. Smith’s an excellent writer —
there’s no argument about that.* But I think he
overextended himself on his last piece of work.
That “vistas unimaginable” stuff can be overdone,
and he certainly overdid it in a big way! Yes,
his latest was too super, and too much of the same
old thing.
The new department, “Probability Zero,” is well
worth the space devoted to it; that’s the sort of
thing you have to look at twice to realize its utter
implausibility.
Art work? Rogers is incomparable per usual.
Schneeman fairly good. But the Isip boys and
some new blood would come in handy.
As for the recent change in format: I may be
prejudiced, but Astounding looks like — and is, for
me — one of the classiest and best magazines on the
market. — Bill Stoy, 140-92 Burden Crescent, Ja-
maica, New York.
AST— 8G
I T'S still around — and it's twenty-one years
old, officially,
For it was in 1921 that LOVE STORY
MAGAZINE was born. And now that it
has passed its majority, it is still the only
weekly in the woman's field. That's a rec-
ord to be proud of, and one that proves
the quality of the magazine.
There'll be plenty of romance to go around
— with no shortages — for readers of LOVE
STORY MAGAZINE. Make it a weekly
habit, fifty-two times a year.
LOVf STOfiy
10c A COPY AT ALL NEWSSTANDS
116
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
By 278,200 A. D. a few million miles more or less
won’t matter anyway!
Dear Mr. Campbell:
Glad you liked the article about RW Tauri. It
is truly an astounding discovery.
Forgot to mention that it is really a triple sys-
tem. During the eclipse of September 9, 1941, Mr.
Joy, using the 100-inch, saw a faint companion. So
it consists of the two very close B9 and KO stars
and a more distant star about which little is known
yet.
If you plan to use any more astronomical cov-
ers, I should think the triple system of RW Tauri
would be spectacular. The B9 star would pre-
sumably be bluish white surrounded by the bril-
liant scarlet ring of hydrogen.
Here is some information that might interest
your readers. I dug it up recently while prepar-
ing some data for publication.
Astronomers are always talking about how far
away everything in the Universe is from every-
thing else. But these are some examples of how
close together certain celestial bodies have come
to one another.
Closest approach of Venus to the Earth. These
occur when Venus makes one of its December
transits across the Sun’s disk. At that time the
Earth is near perihelion and the distance is a
minimum. At the transit of December 6, 1882,
Venus was at a distance of 24,568,000 miles, or
about 1,500,000 miles closer than the figure given
in most textbooks.
Closest approach of Mars to the Earth. The
closest approaches always come in August at in-
tervals of fifteen or seventeen years, when Mars
is in opposition and at perihelion. Exceptionally
close approaches were in 1877 and 1924 when Mars
was at distances of 34,990,000 and 34,637,000 miles,
respectively. Opposition of 1877 is famous for
discovery of canals and two moons.
The closest imaginable approach of Mars would
be for opposition to occur when Mars is at peri-
helion and Earth at aphelion. The two orbits are
so oriented at present that this is impossible, but
from the known slow shift in the perihelion of
planets’ orbits the time of such oppositions can be
calculated. There was one 47,600 years ago and
there will be another about 278,200 A. D. This
absolute minimum distance of Mars is 33,883,000
miles.
Closest approach of an asteroid to the Earth:
The asteroid Hermes on October 30, 1937, missed
the Earth by only 485,000 miles. Computations
based upon its rather uncertain orbit indicate it
may come as close as 220,000 miles.
Closest approach of a comet. Although about
one thousand comets have been recorded, few have
made a really close approach to us. The record is
still held by Lexell’s Comet which was within
1,400,000 miles of the Earth on July 1, 1770. It
had no tail, but its head got to be swollen up to
five times the diameter of the full moon.
Jupiter had a near collision with a comet on
July 20, 1886, when Brooks Comet passed inside
the orbit of the fifth satellite and within 55,000
miles of the planet’s surface. As a punishment for
such unseemly conduct Jupiter shortened the com-
et’s period by twenty-two years.
The fifth satellite of Jupiter revolves only 68,300
miles from the surface of its primary. Mimas,
seventh satellite of Saturn, is 76,000 miles from
planet and but 27,000 miles from edge of ring sys-
tem. Record, of course, is Phobos only 3700 miles
from Mars — about the distance from Panama to
Honolulu.
All stars are commonly supposed to be many
light-years apart, but the eclipsing binaries are
almost in contact with each other. We even find
cases of double, triple, and clusters of island uni-
verses; there are cases where one system has pene-
trated into another. — R. S. Richardson, 1244 North
Holliston Avenue, Pasadena, California.
Length helps in science-fiction; the author has to
describe a background of a whole culture, some-
thing the author of here-and-now stories needn’t
do.
Dear Mr. Campbell:
Oh, stop it! You’re carrying things too far.
Four stories and a wordy serial: a fine big May
issue !
I grant you, the long novelette does allow the
author more “room” to develop atmosphere, finer
characterization and a broader canvas for his plot.
But this is true only to the extent of the author’s
ability as a storyteller. A good writer, if he has
a worthy story, can tell it just as effectively in
fifteen hundred words as in fifteen thousand. And
before that objection passes your lips, I give you
my clincher: Guy de Maupassant. Perhaps you
have read his two tellings of “The Legacy”? The
one thousands of words longer than the other, yet
each in itself is as nearly perfect as a story — of any
length — can be.
My point is not that you discard the novelette
for the short story. It is, each being equally
effective, that you print more short stories than
you are accustomed to. Too many long stories in
one issue tend toward dullness. Contrast is
needed. You know how it is in writing: inter-
mingle complex sentences with short, simple ones.
Unless you want to lose your reader’s interest. So
how about it? Take out a novelette, add four or
five shorts. And at least one or two short-shorts.
You can get them if you ask for them.
This might be good in more ways than one.
BRASS TACKS
117
I note a tendency in your beloved novelettes
toward bringing back the complex, galacticlike
plot. This should have gone overboard with the
editor who preceded you. A story, no matter
how well told or plotted, loses its effectiveness in
direct ratio to its relation to present-day knowl-
edge.
I hope I make myself clear. E. E. Smith’s
tales, for all their imaginative greatness, have this
failing — and for that reason they become so alien
that they lose their interest, and in consequence
become dull, absurd and amusing. “Second Stage
Lensmen” illustrates this nicely. “Asylum” in the
May issue is another example. Ditto “Recruiting
Station.” These are excellent examples of science-
fiction and fantasy at its sophisticated worst; but
they are excellent as examples of a certain type
of “fantasy” that does have a clique all its own,
namely “Campbell”-fantasy. Or science-fiction, if
you prefer.
These are just passing thoughts. I’ll go no
deeper; no doubt I’m in hot water already. I
could explain more completely, but that would take
time and space — which is valuable to us both.
Perhaps a glance at my best-ten of ’41 list will give
you better insight as to my peculiarities in the
judging of a good, competent story over the dull
and the trite :
1. “Common Sense” — Heinlein;
2. “By His Bootstraps” — MacDonald;
3. “The Probable Man” — Bester;
4. “Elsewhere” — Saunders ;
5. “Sixth Column” — MacDonald;
6. “Mechanical Mice” — Hugi;
7. “And He Built a Crooked House” — Hein-
lein;
8. “Reason” — Asimov ;
9. “Homo Saps” — Craig ;
10. “Universe” — Heinlein.
That last story is included only because there
was no other story in all twelve issues good enough
to take its place: “Universe” was actually no more
than a powerfully interesting prologue and intro-
duction to the real story, “Common Sense.” And
before anyone jumps down my neck for not in-
cluding “Methuselah’s Children” and “The Stolen
Dormouse,” let me explain. Briefly. The latter,
while beautifully written, said nothing and was
stinko as a story. Heinlein’s serial started out
grandly, flopped in the second installment and
settled dismally down to a weak and from-the-first-
chapter-telegraphed conclusion. So much for it.
No “Probability Zero” in the May issue. Good!
Keep it out. Don’t advertise that your book is a
pack of lies ; let the unsuspecting reader find it out
for himself.
Rogers’ cover for April was superb! As was
MacDonald’s handling of an alien race in his
“Goldfish Bowl.” — Kenneth L. Harrison, 1812
Southeast 48th, Portland, Oregon.
H ERE was someone who chased
and exploded airplanes — all the
while falling up.
Doc Savage's adventuresome crew
thought nothing could be as fantastic
as that. But they were to come
upon happenings even more mysteri-
ous ... so weird, in fact, that for a
while they thought they had lost their
minds.
You’ll thrill to THE MAN WHO
FELL UP — exciting novel in the July
issue of.
DOO SAVA (vE
10c A COPY AT ALL NEWSSTANDS
118
TOOLS
By Clifford D. Simak
• "Life as we know it" is a ratlier meaningless phrase, really; we know
the life forms of one planet, life forms that, almost certainly, started from
one particularly successful primal bit of jelly that succeeded in destroying its
competitors. On another planet, with terrifically different basic conditions—
Illustrated by Kramer
Venus had broken many men.
Now it was breaking Harvey
Boone, and the worst of it was
that Boone knew it was breaking
him and couldn’t do a thing
about it.
Although it wasn’t entirely
Venus. Partly it was Archie —
Archie, the thing in the talking
jar. Perhaps it wasn’t right call-
ing Archie just a “thing.”
Archie might have been an “it”
or “they.” No one knew. In
fact, 'no one knew much of any-
thing about Archie despite the
fact men had talked to him and
studied him for almost a hun-
dred years.
TOOLS
119
Harvey Boone was official ob-
server for the Solar Institute,
and his reports, sent back with
every rocketload of radium that
streaked out to Earth, were add-
ing to the voluminous mass of
data assembled on Archie. Data
that told almost nothing at all.
Venus itself was bad enough.
Men died when a suit cracked or
radium shields broke down. Al-
though that wasn’t the usual way
the planet killed. Venus had a
better — perhaps, more accurately
— a worse way.
Any alien planet is hard to
live on and stay sane. Strange-
ness is a word that doesn’t have
much meaning until a man
stands face to face with it and
then it smacks him straight be-
tween the eyes.
Venus was alien — plus. One
always had a sense that eyes
were watching him, watching all
the time. And waiting. Al-
though one didn’t have the least
idea what they were waiting for.
On Venus, something always
stalked a man — something that
trod just on the outer edge of
shadow. A sense of not belong-
ing, of being out of place, of be-
ing an intruder. A baffling psy-
chological something that drove
men to their deaths or to living
deaths that were even worse.
Harvey Boone huddled on a
chair in one corner of the labora-
tory, nursing a whiskey bottle,
while Archie chuckled at him.
"Nerves,” said Archie. “Your
nerves are shot to hell.”
Boone’s hand shook as he
tilted the whiskey bottle up.
His hate-filled eyes glared at
the lead-glass jar even as he
gulped.
Boone knew what Archie said
was true. Even through his
drink-fogged brain, the one fact
stood out in bright relief — he
was going crazy. He had seen
Johnny Garrison, commander of
the dome, watching him. And
Doc Steele. Doc was the psy-
chologist, and when Doc started
watching one it was time to pull
up and try to straighten oneself
out. For Doc’s word was law.
It had to be law.
A knock sounded on the door
and Boone called out an invita-
tion. Doc Steele strode in.
"Good morning, Boone,” he
said. “Hello, Archie.”
Archie’s voice, mechanical and
toneless, returned the greeting.
“Have a drink,” said Boone.
Doc shook his head, took a ci-
gar from his pocket and with a
knife cut it neatly in two. One
half he stuck back in his pocket,
the other half in his mouth.
“Don’t you ever light those
things?” demanded Boone irrita-
bly.
“Nope,” Doc replied cheer-
fully. "Always dry-smoke
them.”
He said to Archie: “How are
you today, Archie?”
Despite its mechanical whir,
Archie’s reply sounded almost
querulous: “Why do you always
ask me that, doctor? You know
there’s nothing wrong with me.
There never could be. I’m al-
ways all right.”
Doc chuckled. “I seem to keep
forgetting about you. Wish the
human race was like that. Then
there wouldn’t be any need for
chaps like me.”
“I’m glad you came,” Archie
grated. “I like to talk to you.
You never make me feel you’re
trying to find out something.”
“He says that to get my goat,”
snapped Boone.
“I wouldn’t let him do it,” Doc
declared. To Archie he said : “I
suppose it does get tiresome
after a hundred years or so. But
it doesn’t seem to have done
much good. No one seems to
have found out much about
you.”
He swiveled the cigar across
his face. “Maybe they tried too
hard.”
“That,” said Archie, “might be
true. You remind me of Master-
son. You’re different from the
ones who come out to watch me
now.”
“You don’t like them?” Doc
winked at Boone and Boone
glowered back.
“Why should I like them?”
asked Archie. “They regard me
as a freak, a curiosity, something
to be observed, an assignment to
be done. Masterson thought of
me as life, as a fellow entity.
And so do you.”
“Why, bless my soul,” said
Doc, “and so I do.”
“The others pity me,” Archie
stated.
“You don’t catch me pitying
you,” Doc declared. “Sometimes
I catch myself wishing I were
you. I suspect I might enjoy
your kind of philosophy,”
“The human race,” protested
Archie, “couldn’t understand my
philosophy. I doubt if I could
explain it to them. The lan-
guage doesn’t have the words.
Just as I had a hard time under-
standing a lot of your Terres-
trial philosophy and economics.
I’ve studied your history and
your economics and your politi-
cal science. I’ve kept up with
your current events. And some-
times, many times, it doesn’t
make sense to me. Sometimes I
think it’s stupid, but I try to tell
myself that it may be because I
don’t understand. I miss some-
thing, perhaps. Some vital quirk
of mind, some underlying fac-
tor.”
Doc sobered. “I don’t think
you miss much, Archie. A lot of
the things we do are stupid, even
by our own standards. We lack
foresight so often.”
Doc lifted his eyes to the large
oil portrait that hung on the wall
above Boone’s desk, and he had
quite forgotten Boone. From
the portrait, kindly gray eyes
smiled out of the face. The
brows were furrowed, the wavy
white hair looked like a silver
crown.
“We need more men like him,”
said Doc. “More men with vi-
sion.”
The portrait was of Master-
son, the man who had discov-
ered intelligent life existing in
the great clouds of radon that
hung over the vast beds of ra-
dium ore. Masterson had been
120
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
more than a man of vision. He
had been a genius and a glutton
for work.
From the moment he had dis-
cerned, by accident, what he
thought were lifelike properties
in some radon he was studying,
he had labored unceasingly with
but one end in view. In this
very laboratory he had carried
out his life work, and there, in
the lead-glass jar on the table,
lay the end product — Archie.
Masterson had confined radon
under pressure in a shielded jar
equipped with a delicate system
of controls. Failing time after
time, never admitting defeat, he
had taught radon in the jar to
recognize certain electrical im-
pulses set up within the jar.
And the radon, recognizing
these impulses as intelligent
symbols, finally had learned to
manipulate the controls which
produced the voice by which it
spoke.
It had not been as easy as it
sounded, however. It took many
grueling years. For both Mas-
terson and Archie were groping
in the dark, working without
comparable experience, without
even a comparable understand-
ing or a comparable mode of
thinking. Two alien minds —
“Does it seem a long time,
Archie?” Doc asked.
“That’s hard to say,” the
speaker boomed. “Time doesn’t
have a great deal of meaning to
something that goes on and on.”
“You mean you are immortal?”
“No, perhaps not immortal.”
“But do you know?” snapped
Doc.
Archie did, then, the thing
which had driven observer after
observer close to madness. He
simply didn’t answer.
Silence thrummed in the room.
Doc heard the click of sliding
doors elsewhere in the dome, the
low hum of powerful machinery.
“That’s the way he is,” yelled
Boone. “That’s the way he al-
ways is. Shuts up like a clam.
Sometimes I’d like to — ”
“Break it up, Archie,” com-
manded Doc. “You don’t have
to play dead with me. I’m not
here to question you. I’m just
here to pass the time of day. Is
there anything I can do for
you?”
“You might bring in the latest
newspapers and read to me,” said
Archie.
“That,” declared Doc, “would
be a downright privilege.”
“But not the funnies,” cau-
tioned Archie. “Somehow I
can’t appreciate the funnies.”
Outside the dome, the week-
long night had fallen and it was
snowing again — great, white
sheets driven by gusty blasts of
wind. Not real snow, but para-
formaldehyde, solidified formal-
dehyde. For that was the stuff
of which the mighty cloud banks
which forever shielded the
planet from space was composed.
Harvey Boone, clad in space
gear, stood on the barren ridge
above the dome and looked down
at the scene spread before his
eyes.
There lay the dome, with the
flicker of shadows playing over
it as the great batteries of lamps
set in the radium pits swung to
and fro.
In the pits labored mighty ma-
chines — specialized machines op-
erating with “radon brains,” us-
ing, in simplified form, the same
principles of control as were
used to communicate with
Archie. Brains that could re-
ceive and understand orders,
execute them through the me-
dium of the machinery which
they controlled — but which, un-
like Archie, did not hold human
knowledge accumulated over the
course of a hundred years.
Here and there were men.
Men incased in shining crystal
armor to protect them against
the hell’s brew that was Venus’
atmosphere. Carbon dioxide and
not a trace of oxygen. Once
there had been plenty of free
oxygen, some water vapor. But
the oxygen had gone to form car-
bon dioxide and formaldehyde,
and the water vapor had com-
bined to solidify the formalde-
hyde.
Harvey Boone shivered as a
blast of hot wind swirled a blan-
ket of solidified formaldehyde
around him, shutting off the
view. For a moment he stood
isolated in a world of swirling
white and through the whiteness
something seemed to stalk him.
Something that might have been
fear, and yet more stark than
fear, more subtle than panic,
more agonizing than terror.
Boone was on the verge of
cringing horror before the wind
whipped the cloud of snow away.
The gale hooted and howled at
him. The dancing snow made
ghostly patterns in the air. The
banks of lights in the pits below
weaved fantastically against the
sweeping, wind-driven clouds of
white.
Unaccountable panic gripped
him tight. Mocking whispers
danced along the wind. The ris-
ing wind shrieked malignantly
and a burst of snow swished at
him.
Harvey Boone screamed and
ran, unseen terror trotting at his
heels.
But the closing lock did not
shut out the horror of the out-
doors. It wasn’t something one
could get rid of as easily as that.
Stripped of space gear, he
found his hands were shaking.
“I need a drink,” he told him-
self.
In the laboratory he took the
bottle out of his desk, tilted it.
A mocking laugh sounded be-
hind him. Nerves on edge, he
whirled about.
A face was leering at him from
the glass jar on the table.
And that was wrong. For there
wasn’t any face. There wasn’t
anything one could see inside
the jar. Nothing but Archie —
radon under pressure. One
doesn’t see radon — not unless
one looks at it through a spec-
troscope.
Boone passed his hand swiftly
before his eyes and looked again.
The face was gone.
Archie chortled at him. “I’m
TOOLS
121
getting you. I almost got you
then. You’ll crack up pretty
soon. What are you waiting for?
Why are you hanging on? In
the end I’ll get you!”
Boone strangled with rage.
“You’re wrong,” he mouthed.
“I’m the one that’s got you.” He
slapped a pile of notes that lay
on his desk. “I’m the one who’s
going to crack you. I’ll bust you
wide open. I’ll let them know
what you really are.”
“Oh, yeah!” crowed Archie.
Boone set down the bottle.
“Damn you,” he said thickly, “I
have half a notion to settle you
once and for all. You’ve deviled
me long enough. I’m going to
let you die.”
“You’ll do what?” demanded
Archie.
“I’ll let you die,” stormed
Boone. “All I have to do is for-
get to pump more radon in. In
another week you’ll be polonium
and — ”
“You wouldn’t dare,” taunted
Archie. “You know what would
happen to you then. The Insti-
tute would have your scalp for
that.”
The face was in the jar again.
A terrible face. One that sent
fear and loathing and terrifying
anger surging through
the scientist.
With a shriek of rage,
Boone grabbed the bottle
off the desk and hurled
it. It missed Archie,
shattered against the
wall, spraying the glass
jar with liquor.
Archie tittered and a
hand materialized before
the face, waggling its
fingers in an obscene ges-
ture.
With a hoarse whoop,
Boone leaped forward
and snatched up a heavy
stool. Archie’s laughter
rang through the room —
terrible laughter.
Boone screamed in in-
sane rage and babbled.
The stool came up and
smashed downward. The
jar splintered under the
crashing impact.
Searing radiations lanced
through the room. The spectro-
graphic detectors flamed faintly.
Fans whined, rose to a piercing
shriek, sweeping the air, throw-
ing the radon outside the dome.
Atmosphere hissed and roared.
But Harvey Boone knew none
of this, for Harvey Boone was
dead. Incredible pain had lashed
at him in one searing second and
he had dropped, his face and
hands burned to a fiery red, his
eyes mere staring holes.
Radon, in its pure state,
weight for weight, is one hun-
dred thousand times as active as
radium.
“But Archie couldn’t have had
anything to do with it,” pro-
tested Johnny Garrison. “Hyp-
notism! That’s incredible. He
couldn’t hypnotize a person.
There’s nothing to support such
a belief. We’ve observed Archie
for a hundred years — ”
“Let’s not forget one thing,”
interrupted Doc. “In Archie we
were observing something that
was intelligent. Just how intel-
ligent we had no way of know-
ing. But we do know this: His
intelligence was not human in-
telligence. It couldn’t be. True,
we bridged the gap, we talked
with him. But the talk was car-
ried on in human terms, upon a
human basis.”
Doc’s cigar traveled from east
to west. “Does that suggest
anything to you?”
The dome commander’s face
was white. “I’d never thought
of that. But it means — it would
have to mean — that Archie was
intelligent enough to force his
thought processes into human
channels.”
Doc nodded. “Could man have
done the same? Could man have
forced himself to think the way
Archie thinks? I doubt it.
Archie’s thought processes prob-
ably would be too alien for us
to even grasp. What is more,
Archie recognized this. It all
boils down to this: We fur-
nished the mechanical set-up,
Archie furnished the mental
set-up.”
“You make it sound frighten-
ing,” said Garrison.
“It is frightening,” Doc as-
sured him.
Garrison stood up. “There’s
no use beating around the bush.
Both of us are thinking the same
thing.”
122
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Doc said: “I’m afraid so.
There’s nothing else to think.”
“All of them know,” said Gar-
rison, “all of them, or it, or what-
ever is out there — they know as
much as Archie knew.”
“I’m sure they do,” Doc
agreed. “Archie never lost his
identity, even though we had to
pump in new radon every few
days. It was always the same
Archie. Tests with the radon
brains on the machines, however,
revealed merely an intelligence
very poorly versed in human
knowledge. The same radon,
mind you, and yet the radon that
was used to replenish Archie be-
comes Archie, while all the other
radon remained an intelligence
that had none of Archie’s human
knowledge.”
“And now,” said Garrison, “it’s
all Archie. I told Mac he’d have
to shut down the machines when
the radon ran low in the brains.
We simply can’t take a chance.
There’ll be hell to pay. R. C.
will blast space wide open.
We’re behind schedule now — ”
He stared out the port with
haggard face, watching the snow
sweep by.
“Take it easy, Johnny,” coun-
seled Doc. “The home office has
been riding you again. You’re
behind schedule and you’re get-
ting jumpy. You’re remember-
ing some of the things you’ve
seen happen to men who couldn’t
keep the wheels of industry mov-
ing and the banners of Radium,
Inc., waving high. You’re think-
ing of R. C.’s secret police and
charges of sabotage and God
knows what.”
“Look, Doc,” said Garrison
desperately, almost pleadingly,
“this is my big chance — my last
chance. I’m not too young any
more, and this chance has to
click. Make good here on Venus
and I’m set for life. No more
third-rate wilderness posts out
on the Jovian moons, no more
stinking tricks on the Martian
desert. It’ll be Earth for me —
Earth and an easy-chair.”
“I know how it is,” said Doc.
“It’s the old system of fear.
You’re afraid of the big boys
and Mac is afraid of you and the
men are afraid of Mac. And all
qf us are afraid of Venus. Ra-
dium, Inc., owns the Solar Sys-
tem, body and soul. The radium
monopoly, holding companies,
interlocking directories — it all
adds up to invisible government,
not too invisible at that. R. C.
Webster owns us all. He owns
us by virtue of Streeter’s secret
police and his spies. He owns
us because radium is power and
he owns the radium. He owns
us because there isn’t a govern-
ment that won’t jump when he
snaps his fingers. His father
and grandfather owned us before
this, and his son and grandson
will own us after a while.”
He chuckled. “You needn’t
look so horrified, Johnny.
You’re the only one that’s hear-
ing me, and you won’t say a
word. But you know it’s the
truth as well as I. Radium is
the basis of the power that holds
the Solar System in thrall. The
wheels of the System depend on
radium from Venus. It was the
price the people of Earth had to
pay for solar expansion, for a
solar empire. Just the cost of
wheeling a ship from one planet
to another is tremendous. It
takes capital to develop a solar
empire, and when capital is
called on it always has a price.
We paid that price, and this is
what we got.”
Garrison reached out with
trembling hands to pick up a
bottle of brandy. The liquor
splashed as he poured it in a
tumbler.
“What are we going to do,
Doc?”
“I wish I knew,” said Doc.
A bell jangled and Garrison
lifted the phone.
The voice of the chief engi-
neer shouted at him.
“Chief, we have to fill those
brains again. Either that or shut
down. The radon is running
low.”
“I thought I told you to shut
them down,” yelled Garrison.
“We can’t take a chance. We
can’t turn those machines over
to Archie.”
Mac howled in anguish. “But
we’re way behind schedule.
Shut them down and — ”
“Shut them down!” roared
Garrison. “Sparks is trying to
get through to Earth. I’ll let
you know.”
He hung the speaker back in
its cradle, lifted it again and
dialed the communications room.
“How’s the call to Earth com-
ing?”
“I’m trying,” yelped Sparks,
“but I’m afraid. We’re nearing
the Sun, you know. Space is all
chopped. . . . Hey, wait a min-
ute. Here we are. I’ll tie you
in—”
Static crackled and snapped.
A thin voice was shouting.
“That you, Garrison? Hello,
Garrison!”
Garrison recognized the voice,
distorted as it was, and grimaced.
He could envision R. C. Web-
ster, president of Radium, Inc.,
bouncing up and down in his
chair, furious at the prospect of
more trouble on Venus.
“Yes, R. C., this is Garrison.”
“Well,” piped R. C., “what’s
the trouble now? Speak up, man,
what’s gone wrong this time?”
Swiftly Garrison told him.
Twice static blotted out the
tight beam and Sparks worked
like a demon to re-establish con-
tact.
“And what are you afraid of?”
shrieked the man on Earth.
“Simply this,” explained Gar-
rison, wishing it didn’t sound so
silly. “Archie has escaped. That
means all the radon knows as
much as he did. If we pump
new radon into the brains, we’ll
be pumping in intelligence radon
— that is, radon that knows about
us — that is — ”
“Poppycock,” yelled R. C.
“That’s the biggest lot of damn
foolishness I’ve ever heard.”
“But, R. C.— ”
“Look here, young man,”
fumed the voice, “we’re behind
schedule, aren’t we? You’re out
there to dig radium, aren’t you?”
TOOLS
123
With a roar of rage, he
crashed the jar. The ra-
don intelligence fled in a
puff of deadly radiation.
“Yes,” admitted Garrison,
hopelessly.
“All right, then, dig radium.
Get back on schedule. Fill up
those brains and tear into it — ”
“But you don’t understand — ”
“I said to fill up those brains
and get to work. And keep
working!”
“Those are orders?” asked
Garrison.
“Those are orders!” snapped
R. C.
Static howled at them deris-
ively.
Garrison watched the ship roar
away from the surface, lose it-
self in the driving whiteness of
solidified formaldehyde. Beside
him, Mac rubbed armored hands
together in exultation.
“That almost puts us on sched-
ule,” he announced.
Garrison nodded, staring
moodily out over the field. It
was night again, and little wind
devils of formaldehyde danced
and jigged across the ground.
Night and a snowstorm, and the
mercury at one hundred forty
degrees above Fahrenheit. Dur-
ing the week-long day it got hot-
ter.
He heard the clicking of the
mighty brain-controlled ma-
chines as they dug ore in the
pits, the whine of wind around
the dome and in the jagged hills,
the snicking of the refrigerator
units in his suit.
“How soon will you have
Archie’s jar done, Mac?” he
asked. “The new Institute ob-
server is getting anxious to see
what he can get out of him.”
“Just a few hours more,” said
Mac. “It took us a long time to
figure out some of the things
about it, but I’ve had the robots
on it steady.”
“Rush it over soon as you get
it done. We’ve tried to talk to
some of the radon brains in the
machines, but it’s no dice.”
“There’s just one thing both-
ers me,” said Mac.
“What is that?” Garrison
asked sharply.
“Well, we didn’t figure out ex-
actly all the angles on that jar.
Some of the working parts are
mighty complicated and delicate,
you know. But we thought we’d
get started at least and let the
Institute stooge take over when
he got here. But when those
robots — ”
“Yes?” said Garrison.
“When those robots got to the
things we couldn’t understand,
they tossed the blueprints to one
side and went right ahead. So
help me, they didn’t even fum-
ble.”
The two men looked at one an-
other, faces stolid.
“I don’t like it,” Mac declared.
“Neither do I,” said Garrison.
He turned and walked slowly
toward the dome, while Mac
went back to the pits.
In Garrison’s office, Doc had
cornered Roger Chester, the new
Institute observer.
“The Institute has mountains
of reports,” Chester was saying.
“I tried to go through them be-
fore I came out. Night and day
almost. Ever since I knew I was
124
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
going to replace Boone.”
Doc carefully halved a new ci-
gar, tucked one piece in his
pocket, the other in his mouth.
“What were you looking for?”
he asked.
“A clue. You see, I knew
Boone. For years. He wasn’t
the kind of fellow who would
break. It would have taken more
than Venus. But I didn’t find a
thing.”
“Boone himself might have
furnished that clue,” Doc sug-
gested quietly. “Did you look
through his reports?”
“I read them over and over,”
Chester admitted. “There was
nothing there. Some of his re-
ports were missing. The last
few days — ”
“Those last few days can be
canceled out,” said Doc. “The
lad wasn’t himself. I wouldn’t
be surprised he didn’t write any
reports those last few days.”
Chester said: “That would
have been unlike him.”
Doc wrangled the cigar vi-
ciously. “Find anything else?”
“Not much. Not much more
than Masterson knew. Even
now — after all these years, it’s
hard to believe — that radon
could be alive.”
“If any gas could live,” said
Doc, “it would be radon. It’s
heavy. Molecular weight of 222.
One hundred eleven times as
heavy as hydrogen, five times as
heavy as carbon dioxide. Not
complicated from a molecular
standpoint, but atomically one of
the most complicated known.
Complicated enough for life.
And if you’re looking for the
unbalance necessary for life, it’s
radioactive. Chemically inert,
perhaps, but terrifically unstable
physically — ”
The door of the office opened
and Garrison walked in.
“Still chewing the fat about
Archie?” he asked.
He strode to his desk and took
out a bottle and glasses.
“It’s been two weeks since
Archie got away,” he said. “And
nothing’s happened. We’re sit-
ting on top of a volcano, waiting
for it to go sky high. And noth-
ing happens. What is Archie
doing? What is he waiting
for?”
“That’s a big order, Garrison,”
declared Chester. “Let us try to
envision a life which had no
tools because it couldn’t make
them, would be useless to it even
if it did have them because it
couldn’t use them. Man’s rise,
you must remember, is largely,
if not entirely, attributable to
his use of tools. An accident that
made his thumb opposing gave
him a running start — ”
The phone on the desk blared.
Garrison snatched it up, and
Mac’s voice shrieked at him.
“Chief, those damn robots are
running away! So are the ma-
chines in the pit — ”
Cold fingers seemed to clamp
around the commander’s throat.
Mac’s voice was almost sob-
bing. “ — hell for leather out
here. But they left Archie’s jar.
Must have forgotten that.”
“Mac,” yelled Garrison, “jump
into a tractor and try to follow
them. Find out where they’re
going.”
“But, chief—”
“Follow them!” shouted Gar-
rison.
He slammed down the hand
piece, lifted it and dialed.
“Sparks, get hold of Earth!”
“No soap,” said Sparks laconi-
cally.
“Damn it, try to get them. It’s
a matter of life and death!”
“I can’t,” wailed Sparks.
“We’re around the Sun. We
can’t get through.”
“Get the ship, then.”
“It won’t do any good,” yelped
Sparks. “They’re hugging the
Sun to cut down distance. It’ll
be days before they can relay a
message.”
“O. K.,” said Garrison wearily.
“Forget it.”
He hung up and faced Chester.
“You don’t have to imagine
Archie without tools any
longer,” he said. “He has them
now. He just stole them from
us.”
Mac dragged in hours later.
“I didn’t find a thing,” he re-
ported. “Not a single thing.”
Garrison studied him, red-eyed
from worry. “That’s all right,
Mac. I didn’t think you would.
Five miles from here and you’re
on unknown ground.”
“What are we going to do
now, chief?”
Garrison shook his head. “I
don’t know. Sparks finally got
a message through. Managed to
pick up Mercury, just coming
around the Sun. Probably
they’ll shoot it out to Mars to be
relayed to Earth.”
Chester came out of the labo-
ratory and sat down.
Doc swiveled his cigar.
“What has Archie to say?” he
asked.
Chester’s face grew red. “I
pumped the radon into the jar.
But there was no response.
Practically none, that is. Told
me to go to hell.”
Doc chuckled at the man’s dis-
comfiture. “Don’t let Archie get
you down. That’s what he did
to Boone. Got on his nerves.
Drove him insane. Archie had
to get out some way, you see.
He couldn’t do anything while
he was shut up in one place. So
he forced Boone to let him out.
Boone didn’t know what was go-
ing on, but Archie did — ”
“But what is Archie doing
now?” exploded Garrison.
“He’s playing a game of
nerves,” said Doc. “He’s soften-
ing us up. We’ll be ready to
meet his terms when he’s ready
to make them.”
“But why terms ? What could
Archie want?”
Doc’s cigar swished back and
forth. “How should I know?
We might not even recognize
what Archie is fighting for —
and, again, we might. He might
be fighting for his existence.
His life depends upon those ra-
dium beds. No more radium, no
more radon, no more Archie.”
“Nonsense,” Chester broke in.
“We could have dug those beds
for a million years and not made
a dent in them.”
TOOLS
125
“A million years,” objected
Doc, “might be only a minute or
two for Archie.”
“Damn you. Doc,” snapped
Garrison, “what are you grin-
ning for? What is so funny
about it?”
“It’s amusing,” Doc explained.
“Something I’ve often wondered
about — just what Earthmen
would do if they ran up against
something that had them licked
forty ways from Sunday.”
“But he hasn’t got us licked,”
yelled Mac. “Not yet.”
"Anything that can keep ra-
dium from Earth can lick us,”
Doc declared. “And Archie can
do that — don’t you ever kid
yourself.”
“But he’ll ruin the Solar Sys-
tem,” shouted Garrison. “Ma-
chines will have to shut down.
Mines and factories will be idle.
Spaceships will stop running.
Planets will have to be evacu-
ated—”
“What you mean,” Doc
pointed out, “is that he’ll ruin
Radium, Inc. Not the Solar Sys-
tem. The System can get along
without Radium, Inc. Probably
even without radium. It did for
thousands of years, you know.
The only trouble
now is that the
System is keyed
to radium. If
there isn’t any
radium, it means
the economic
framework that
was built on ra-
dium must be
swept away or
some substitute
must be found.
And if no substi-
tute is found, we
must start over
again and find
some other way
of life — perhaps a
better way — ”
Chester leaped
to his feet.
“That’s trea-
son!” he shouted.
Silence struck
the room like a
thunderclap. Three pairs of eyes
stared at the standing man. The
air seemed to crackle with an
electric aliveness.
“Sit down,” Doc snapped.
Chester sank slowly into his
chair. Mac’s hands opened and
closed, as if he kneaded some-
one’s throat.
Doc nodded. “One of R. C.’s
agents. He didn’t smell quite
like an Institute man to me. He
said it was hard to believe radon
could be alive. With an Insti-
tute man that wouldn’t be be-
lief, it would be knowledge.”
“A dirty, snooping stooge,”
said Mac. “Sent out to see what
was wrong on Venus.”
“But not too good a one,” Doc
observed. “He lets his enthusi-
asm for Radium, Inc., run away
with him. Of course, all of us
were taught that enthusiasm our-
selves — in school. But we soon
got over it.”
Chester ran his tongue over
his lips.
“When Radium, Inc., can mon-
key with the Institute,” said
Doc, “it means one of two things.
R. C. is getting pretty sure of
himself or he’s getting desperate.
The Institute was the one thing
that stood out against him. Up
to now he hasn’t dared to lay a
finger on it.”
Garrison had said nothing, but
now he spoke: “By rights, Ches-
ter, we ought to kill you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” said
Chester thinly.
"What difference does it
make?” asked Garrison. “If we
don’t, another one of R. C.’s men
will. You’ve slipped up. And
R. C. doesn’t give his men a
chance to slip a second time.”
“But you were talking trea-
son,” Chester insisted.
“Call it treason,” snarled Gar-
rison. “Call it anything you like.
It’s the language that’s being
talked up and down the System.
Wherever men work out their
hearts and strangle their con-
science in hope of scraps thrown
from Radium, Inc.’s table,
they’re saying the same thing
we are saying.”
The phone blared and Garri-
son put forth his hand, lifted the
set and spoke.
“It’s R. C.,” Sparks yelled at
the other end. “It’s sort of weak,
but maybe you can hear. Mars
, .1 Eeon OIT,,ca *
K;^' 050 '*
You’re in tune with the time* when you ride a
Harley-Davidson. You go placet in a hurry and cut mile-
age costs to a fraction of other travel. You conserve got,
oil and rubber — vital for war needs.
The dependable Harley-Davidson is ever ready to take you
to and from work — and on Important errands. Red-
blooded riders who are using their sturdy Hariey-Davidsons
for essential civilian service know they can depend on their
mounts for superior performance — iust like the men
who ride Hariey-Davidsons in America's armed forces.
See your Harley-Davidson dealer — have him tell you all
about these world champion motorcycles. Look over his
special values in reconditioned models.
Sand. Gaufian Mou*l
HARLEY-DAVIDSON MOTOR CO., Dept. SS, Milwaukee, Wl».
Send FREE copy of big 24-page "Eolhuiioit"
magazine filled wllh thrilling motorcycle picture,
and itorle*. Alio llteratur. on th. later! Horley-
Davldiont. Stomp li enclosed for mailing colt.
Name
Add ret*
126
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
and Mercury are relaying.”
“Hello, R. C.,” said Garrison.
Static screamed in deafening
whoops, and then R. C.’s voice
sifted through, disjointed and
reedy.
“ — sit tight. We’re sending
men, ten shiploads of them.”
“Men!” yelped Garrison.
“What will we do with men?”
“Machines, too,” scratched R.
C.’s voice. “Manually operated
machines — ” More howls and
screeches drowned out the rest.
“But R. C., you can’t do that,”
yelled Garrison. “The men will
die like flies. It’ll be mass mur-
der. It’ll be like it was before
— in the early days, before Mas-
terson developed the radon
brains. Men can’t work in those
radium pits — not work and live.”
“That’s a lot of damn tripe,”
raved R. C. “They’ll work—”
“They’ll revolt!” shrieked Gar-
rison.
“Oh, no, they won’t. I’m send-
ing police along.”
“Police!” stormed Garrison.
“Some of Streeter’s bloody
butchers?”
“I’m sending Streeter himself.
Streeter and some of his picked
men. They’ll keep order — ”
“Look, R. C.,” said Garrison
bitterly, “you’d better send a
new commander, too. I’ll be
damned if I’ll work with
Streeter."
“Take it easy, Garrison.
You’re doing all right. Just a
bunch of bad breaks. You’ll
make out all right.”
“I won’t work those men,”
snapped Garrison. “Not the way
they’ll have to work. Radium
isn’t worth it.”
“You will,” yelled R. C„ “or
I’ll have Streeter sock you down
in the pits yourself. Radium
has to move. We have to have
it.”
“By the way,” said Garrison,
suddenly calm, his eyes on Ches-
ter, “you remember that Insti-
tute chap who came to replace
Boone?”
“Yes, I seem to remember — ”
“He’s lost,” said Garrison.
“Walked out into the hills.
We’ve combed them, but there’s
no sign of him.”
Chester rose from the chair in
a smooth leap, hurling himself
at Garrison, one hand snatching
at the phone. The impact of his
body staggered Garrison, but the
commander sent him reeling
with a shove.
“What was that you said,
R. C.? I didn’t hear. The
static.”
“I said to hell with him. Don’t
waste time looking for him.
There are more important
things.”
Chester was charging in again
on Garrison, intent on getting
the phone. Mac moved with the
speed of lightning, one huge fist
knotted and pulled far back. It
traveled in a looping, powerful
arc, caught the charging man
flush on the chin. Chester’s head
snapped back, his feet surged
clear of the floor, his body
smashed against the wall. He
slid into a heap, like a doll some-
one had tossed into a corner.
Doc crossed the rpom and
knelt beside him,
“You hit too hard,” he said.
“I meant to hit hard,” growled
Mac.
“He’s dead,” said Doc. “You
broke his neck.”
Outside, the eternal snowstorm
howled, sweeping the jagged
hills and lamp-lighted pits.
Doc stood in front of a port
and watched the scurrying ac-
tivity that boiled within the
mine. Hundreds of armored men
and hundreds of laboring ma-
chines. Three spaceships, sta-
tioned beside the stock pile, were
being loaded. Streeter’s police,
with ready guns, patrolled the
sentry towers that loomed above
the pits.
The door opened and Garrison
came in with dragging feet.
“How many this shift?” asked
Doc.
“Seven,” Garrison answered
hoarsely. “A screen blew up.”
Doc sucked at the dead cigar.
“This has to stop, Johnny. It
has to stop or something is
bound to crack. It’s a death sen-
tence for any man to be sent out
here. The last replacements
were criminals, men shanghaied
off the street.”
Garrison angrily sloshed the
liquor in his glass.
“Don’t look at me, - ” he
snapped. “It’s out of my hands
now. I’m acting only in an ad-
ministrative capacity. Those are
the exact words. Administrative
capacity. Streeter is the works
out here. He’s the one that’s
running the show. He’s the one
that’s working the men to death.
And when they start to raise a
little hell, those babies of his up
in the towers open up on them.”
“I know all that,” admitted
Doc. “I wasn’t trying to blame
you, Johnny. After all, we
needn’t kid ourselves. If we
don’t walk the line, Streeter will
open up on us as well.”
“You’re telling me,” said Gar-
rison. He gulped the liquor.
“Streeter knows that something
happened to Chester. That yarn
about his being lost out in the
hills simply didn’t click.”
“We never meant it should,”
Doc declared. “But so long as
we serve our purpose, so long
as we throw no monkey
wrenches, so long as we’re good
little boys, we can go on living.”
Archie’s voice grated from be-
yond the open laboratory door.
“Doctor, will you please come
here?”
“Sure, Archie, sure. What can
I do for you?”
“I would like to talk to Cap-
tain Streeter.”
“Captain Streeter,” warned
Doc, “isn’t a nice man. If I were
you, I’d keep away from him.”
“But nevertheless,” persisted
Archie, “I would like to talk to
him. I have something that I’m
sure will interest him. Will you
call him, please?”
“Certainly,” agreed Doc.
He strode out into the office
and dialed the phone.
“Streeter speaking,” said a
voice.
“Archie wants to talk to you,”
said the Doc.
TOOLS
127
“Archie!” stormed Streeter.
“Tell that lousy little hunk of
gas to go chase himself.”
“Streeter,” said Doc, “it
doesn’t make any difference to
me what you do; but, if I were
in your place, I would talk to
Archie. In fact, I’d come run-
ning when he called me.”
Doc replaced the phone, cut-
ting off the sounds of rage com-
ing from the other end.
“Well?” asked Garrison.
“He’ll come,” said Doc.
Ten minutes later Streeter did
come, cold anger in his eyes.
“I wish you gentlemen would
tend to small details yourselves,”
he snarled.
Doc jerked his thumb toward
the open door. “In there,” he
said.
Boots clumping angrily,
Streeter strode into the labora-
tory.
“What is it?” his voice
boomed.
“Captain Streeter,” grated
Archie’s voice, “I don’t like your
way of doing things. I don’t like
Radium, Inc.’s way of doing
things.”
“Oh, so you don’t,” said
Streeter, words silky with rage.
“So,” continued Archie, “I’m
giving you and your men half
an hour to get out of here. Out
of the mine and off this planet.”
There were strangling sounds
as the police captain fought to
speak. Finally he rasped: “And
if we don’t?”
“If you don’t,” said Archie, “I
shall force you to move. If the
mine is not vacated within half
an hour, I shall start
bombardment.”
“Bombardment !”
“Exactly. This place
is ringed with cannon.
It is a barbaric thing to
do, but it’s the only way
you’d understand. I
could use other meth-
ods, but the cannon
probably are the best.”
“You’re bluffing,”
shrieked Streeter. “You
haven’t any cannon.”
“Very well,” said Archie. “Do
what you wish. It’s immaterial
to me. You have thirty minutes.”
Streeter swung around and
stamped out into the office.
“You heard?” he asked.
Doc nodded. “If I were you,
Streeter, I’d pull stakes. Archie
isn’t fooling.”
“Cannon !” snorted the captain.
“Exactly,” said Garrison. “And
don’t you ever think Archie
doesn’t have them. When the
machines ran away they took
along our tools.”
Streeter’s face hardened.
“Let’s say he has them, then.
All right, he has them. So have
we. We’ll fight him!”
Doc laughed. “You’ll play
hell. Fighting Archie is a joke.
Where are you going to find
him? How are you going to
corner him? There isn’t any
way to hit him, no way to come
to grips with him. You can’t
defeat him. You can’t destroy
him. So long as there are ra-
dium beds there will always be
an Archie.”
“I’m calling
Streeter, grimly,
army took over.”
“Call in your army,” said Doc,
“but remember one thing. The
only thing you can fight is
Archie’s weapons. You may de-
stroy his guns, but you can’t
hurt Archie. All he has to do is
build some more. And those
weapons won’t be easy to hit.
Because, you see, those guns will
be intelligent. They won’t de-
pend on brass hats and military
orders. They’ll have brains of
Earth,” said
“It’s time the
The Profession that PAYS
Accountants command big income.
Thousands needed. About 20,000 Certi-
fied Public Accountants in U. S. Many
earn $2,000 to $15,000. We train you
thoroughly at home in your spare time
for C. P. A. examinations or executive account-
ing positions. Previous bookkeeping knowl-
edge unnecessary— we prepare you from ground
up.purtrainingispersonallygiven bystaff of ex-
perienced C. P. A/s. Low cost — easy this book
terms. Write now for valuable 48-
page book, “Accountancy, the
Profession That Pays,*’ free.
LaSalle Extension University
A Correspondence Institution
Dept. 665-H CHICAGO
THE SCHOOL THAT HAS IH ITS ALUMNI OVER 2.000 C.F.A/S
ANY PHOTO ENLARGED
Size 8 x 10 Inches or smaller if de-
sired. Same price for full length or
bust form, groups, landscapes, pet
animals, etc., or enlargements of anyl
part of group picture. Safe return of ,
original photo guaranteed. 3 for $ 1.00
SEND NO MONEYSSS
and within a week you will receive your beautiful
: photos today. .
STANDARD ART STUDIOS. II3S. Jefferson St.. Dent. 772-H. Chicago
FREE
THE ORIGINAL
BLUE BOOK
• Cet this Big, Complete 72 page Original
Blue Book. Contains mystifying novelties,
magicians and conjurers specialties—
j DICE • CARDS- CAMES, Inks, Layouts, etc.
Supplies of all kinds. Write today!
IH. C. EVANS & CO.
D.pt. 18- F . 1520 WEST ADAMS STREET • CHICAGO
SUPER Ju Jitsu
For personal defense and counter-
attack ... no system is more
powerful I Almost unbelievably
efficient. You don’t need big
muscles. Lick brutes twice your
size- with your bare hands. Get
ready now for any emergency —
protect your loved ones. New
self-study course teaches you
double- Quick. Startling low price.
Satisfaction or refund. FREE
DETAILS. Write today sure . . .
time is short! Nelson Co.,
5(j0Sherman, Dept. 506 -F, Chicago.
High School Course
at Home
Many Finish in 2 Years
Go as rapidly as your time and abilities permit. Course
equivalent to resident school work— prepares for college
entrance exams. Standard H.S. texts supplied. Diploma.
Credit for H. 8. subjects already completed. Single subjects If de-
sired. High school education is very important for advancement in
Itart your training now.
lAmerican School, Dpt. HA7. Dnnl at 58th, Chicago
Fine Viam&tuF at ’frhciA
r enable
i prices—
Unredeemed loan pledges and big buying power
us to offer GENUINE DIAMONDS at our low p:
far less than original cost.
Men's and ladies* rings, one carat $95.00, % carat $45.00
Hundreds more beautiful diamonds, exquisite settings. Shipped fot
FREE INSPECTION and APPRAISAL. Send for FREE LIST of
Offerings of brilliant gems at very low prices. Lloyd J . Butler, President.
133
PRUDENTIAL LOAN ASSOCIATION (Pawnbrokers)
3 N. Clark St, Dept.28-G Chicago, Illinois
U. S. Merchant Marine
Offers Wartime Jobs With
a Peacetime Future
BE AN OFFICER
Are you between 18 and 23?
High-school educated? A
U. S. citizen? Anxious to get
in and pitch for America?
Train now to be an Officer
in the fast-growing U. S. Mer-
chant Marine. Ship Officer’s
license and Naval Reserve
commission after graduation.
$ 65 per Month-All Expenses
Good pay, good quarters, dur-
ing 16-month shore-ship
course. Status of Cadet in U. S.
Naval Reserve during training. And
opportunity for a lifetime career.
Send coupon today
U. S. MERCHANT MARINE
TODAY -j
~Fill out and mail
Supervisor of Merchant
Marine Cadet Training
U. S. Coast Guard, Box 6G
Washington, D. C.
Please send me, FREE, and without
obligation, Information Booklet of the
U. S. Merchant Marine Cadet Corps. |
Name I
Street
City State
128
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
their own. You'll be fighting
deadly intelligent machines. I
tell you, Streeter, you haven’t
got a chance!”
Streeter turned to Garrison
with bleak eyes.
“You think the same?” he chal-
lenged and the menace in his
voice was scarcely hidden.
“Archie isn’t bluffing,” Garri-
son insisted. “He can make guns,
tanks, ships ... in fact, he can
duplicate anything we have —
with improvements. He’s got
our tools and our knowledge and
he’s got something we haven’t
got. That’s his knowledge, the
knowledge he never shared with
us.”
“You both are under technical
arrest,” snapped Streeter. “You
will remain inside the dome. If
you venture out — ”
“Get out of here,” yelled Gar-
rison. “Get out of here before
I break your neck!”
Streeter got out, with Garri-
son’s laughter ringing in his
ears.
Doc glanced at his watch.
“Fifteen minutes gone. I won-
der what Streeter will do.”
“He won’t do anything,” Gar-
rison predicted. “He’s pig-
headed. He’ll put in a call to
Earth, have an expeditionary
force sent out as a precautionary
measure. But even now he
doesn’t believe what Archie told
him.”
“I do,” said Doc. “You better
put in a call to Mac. Tell him
to hustle over here. I’d hate to
have him get caught in the fire-
works.”
Garrison nodded and reached
for the phone. Doc got up and
walked into the laboratory.
“Well, Archie, how are you
feeling now?"
“Why do you always ask me
that, doctor?” Archie demanded
irritably. “I’m feeling all right.
I always feel all right. There’s
nothing to go wrong with me.”
“Thought you might feel a bit
different — starting a war.”
“It isn’t a war,” insisted
Archie. “It isn’t even an adven-
ture. At least, not the kind of
an adventure the human race
would understand. It is a part
of a carefully studied plan.”
“But why are you doing it,
Archie? Why are you messing
into this at all ? The human race
can’t touch you. You could, if
you wanted to, just go on disre-
garding them.”
“You might be able to under-
stand,” said Archie.
“I sure would try,” Doc prom-
ised.
“You know about me,” said
Archie. “You probably can imag-
ine the sort of life I lived before
the Earthmen came. For eons I
was a thing without physical
life. My life was mental. I de-
veloped mentally. I specialized
in mentality, you see, because I
didn’t have a body to worry
about. I thought and speculated
and that was all right, because it
was the only kind of life I knew.
It was a good life, too, free of
so many of the worries and an-
noyances of physical being.
Sometimes I wish it could have
continued.
“I didn’t have any enemies. I
didn’t even have neighbors to
fight with. For I could be one
or I could be many; I was suffi-
cient to myself.
“I realized there was slich a
thing as physical being, of
course, because I observed the
few tiny animals that are able
to survive on Venus. Pitifully
inadequate physical life as com-
pared with the life on Earth, but
physical life nevertheless.
“I wondered about that life. I
attempted to formulate a be-
havioristic pattern for such a
type of life endowed with my
mentality. Starting with small
imaginings, I built that idea up
into the pattern of a hypothetical
civilization, a civilization that
paralleled Earth’s in some ways,
differed from it vastly in others.
It couldn’t be the same, you
know, because my philosophy
was a far cry from the kind of
thought that you developed.”
The grating voice died and
then began again — “I, myself, of
course, can never live a life like
that.”
“But Earthmen could,” sug-
gested Doc, the cigar dangling
in his mouth.
“You’re right, doctor,” Archie
said. “Earthmen could.”
“If you could force them to.”
“I will force no one to do any-
thing,” Archie grated. “I am
experimenting.”
“But would the experiment be
good for Earth? Would your
way of life, your hypothetical
civilization, be the right one for
Earth to follow?”
“Frankly, doctor,” said Archie,
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Well, well,” said Doc.
“There’s something else, doc-
tor,” said Archie. “You and Gar-
rison and Mac are in trouble.”
“Trouble,” admitted Doc.
“doesn’t rightly express it.
We’re in a mess clear up to our
ears.”
“There is a ship waiting for
you,” said Archie. “Back in the
hills north of the dome. It is
the fastest thing ever built for
space.”
"A ship!” cried Doc. “Where
did the ship come from?”
“I built it,” Archie said.
“You—”
What Doc had meant to say
was engulfed by a wave of sound
that seemed to rock the dome.
“There it goes!” yelled Garri-
son.
Doc ran into the office and
through the port he saw debris
still flying through the air — the
tangled wreckage of machines
and blasted ore.
The radium pits disrupted in
another flash of blue-white flame
and again thunder blanketed and
rocked the dome. The two re-
maining watch towers vanished
in the upheaval and disinte-
grated in the blast, losing their
identity in the clouts of flung-up
earth.
“He’s using high explosives,”
yelled Garrison.
“Of course,” gasped Doc. “He
wouldn’t dare use radioactive
stuff or he’d blast the planet to
TOOLS
129
bits. No one would dare use
anything but high explosives in
a war on Venus.”
The door swung open and Mac
stumbled in.
“Thanks for the call,” he said.
Men were running now out in
the pits, scurrying like fright-
ened ants, heading for the one
spaceship which had escaped the
shells.
The dust settled slowly over
the battered field, now plunged
in gloom with the shattering of
the lights. And, as if by signal,
the howling wind swept a sheet
of snow down to blot out the
sight.
When the snow cleared, the
pits were empty of life — there
was no movement in the blasted
gouges. Fire spurted from the
launching rockets of the one un-
damaged spaceship, the dome vi-
brating to the monster’s take-off.
Momentarily a trail of flame
climbed into the clouds and then
silence and grayness clamped
down over the deserted mine and
dome.
“That settles it,” Mac com-
mented. “We’re left alone. We’ll
have to wait until the military
comes and then — ”
“You’re wrong,” said Doc.
“There’s a ship waiting out
north in the hills for you two
fellows. A ship that Archie
built. Better take Sparks along
with you. He’s probably still
around.”
“For the two of us?” asked
Mac. “Why not all of us?”
“I can’t go,” said Doc, “I have
to stay. I have a job to do.”
“Forget it, Doc,” urged Garri-
son. “Archie really built that
ship for you. You were the one
he liked. You were the only
one he liked.”
Doc shook his head stubbornly.
“No, I’ve thought it out. I can’t
go along. Archie says the ship
is fast. If I were you, I’d head
for the asteroids. Stick around
there for a while. Maybe after
a time you can come out. Things
are apt to be different then.”
“You’re afraid of what R. C.
would do to you if he caught
you,” jeered Mac.
“No. I’m not afraid of that,”
Doc protested. “He couldn’t do
any more to me then than if he
had me now. And, anyhow, R. C.
is through. He doesn’t know it
yet, but he’s through for good
and all.”
“Mac,” said Garrison, “let’s tie
the stubborn old fool up and
take him along whether he wants
to go or not.”
“Look, Johnny,” declared Doc.
“I’d never forgive you if you
did. Take my word for it. I
have to stay.”
“O. K.,” said Mac. “If the be-
nighted old goat doesn’t want to
go, let the rest of us get mov-
ing. I’ll go hunt up Sparks. We
don’t want to have that war fleet
Streeter called for pick us up as
they are coming in.”
Garrison nodded dumbly and
moved toward the door. With
the knob in his hand, he turned
back.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing
you again, Doc.”
“I don’t imagine you will. I’m
sorry the way things turned out,
Johnny. It was a dirty shame.
And you so near to Earth and
that easy-chair.”
“Aw, hell,” said Garrison, “who
cares for easy-chairs?”
Doc watched through the port
until he saw the flare of a ship
painting the northern hills. His
gaze followed the streak of flame
that climbed up and out toward
the Sun.
Up and out toward the Sun.
Out where one could see the
stars. Out to take their place
with a race that could conquer
those stars. A race that could
stretch out its hand and handi-
work to the farthest reaches of
the Universe. A race that could
trace new pathways between the
galaxies. A race that could hang
its signposts on distant solar
systems.
But a race that needed leader-
ship to do it — a leadership that
would strike off its shackles,
shackles such as Radium, Inc.,
would weave. Shackles born of
MAIL TODAY to your State or local Health I
| Dept, for free literature about SYPHILIS — its |
| cause, spread, and cure. |
I Kame |
■ Address |
State .J
met!
TAMOUS
BLUE BOOK
CATALOG
DICE • CARDS
Perfect Dice, Magic Dice,
Magic Cards — READ THE
BACKS — Inks. Daubs,
Poker Chips. Gaming
Layouts, Dice Boxes,
Counter Games, Punch-
boards. WRITE FOR
CATALOG TODAY
K. C. CARO CO. 1246 W Wo.hington Blvd., Chicago, III.
Classified
Advertising
Patents Secured
INVENTORS — Protect your idea with a Patent. Secure "Patent
Guide” — Free. Write Clarence A. O'Brien and Harvey Jacobson,
Registered Patent Attorneys, 251-Q Adams Building, Washing-
ton, D. C.
Photo Finishing — Developing
ROLL DEVELOPED — 18 prints; or 8 prints 2 enlargements; or
8 enlargements, 25c. Reprints 2c. 50 or more l%c each.
Peerless Studio, Enterprise, Oregon.
Correspondence Courses
CORRESPONDENCE COURSES and educational books, slightly
used. Sold. Rented. Exchanged. All subjects. Satisfaction guar-
anteed. Cash paid for used courses. Complete details and bargain
catalog Free. Write Nelson Company, Dept. G-215, 500 Sherman,
Chicago.
Detectives — Instructions
DETECTIVES EARN BIG MONEY. Work home or travel.
DETECTIVE particulars free. Experience unnecessary. Write,
GEORGE WAGONER, 2640-A Broadway, New York.
Old Gold Wanted
GOLD $35 OUNCE. Mail old gold teeth, diamonds, jewelry,
watches — receive cash by return mail. Satisfaction Guaranteed.
Free information. Paramount Gold Refining Co., 1500-G IlenDe-
pin, Minneapolis, Minn.
START $1260 TO $2100 YEAR
MEN— WOMEN. Thou-
sands war service ap-
pointments. Write im-
mediately for free 32-
page Civil Service book,
with list of positions
and full particulars.
FRANKLIN INSTITUTE
Dept. LI 94, Rochester, N. Y.
130
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
hate and greed and jealousies.
Perhaps Man had gotten off on
the wrong foot. Perhaps his
philosophy had been all wrong
even from the start. Perhaps a
bit of alien philosophy, weird as
it might seem at first, would be
good for him.
With a sigh, Doc turned back
to the room.
A mournful silence hung
there. Machinery still throbbed
and occasionally there was a
whine of fans, but aside from
that there was no other sound.
Doc selected a fresh cigar
from his vest pocket and care-
fully cutit-in two. One half he
stuck in his mouth, the other
went back into the pocket.
He headed for the laboratory,
shutting the door behind him.
“Howdy, Archie,” he said.
“You’re a fool,” said Archie.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I gave you a chance,” rasped
Archie. “You threw it away.
Don’t blame me for anything
that happens now.”
“I had to have a little talk
with you,” said Doc.
“You could have had it be-
fore.”
“No,” persisted Doc. “This
one had to be private. No chance
for anyone to hear.”
“All right,” said Archie, im-
patiently, “go ahead and spill
it.”
“I just wanted to tell you
omething,” Doc explained.
“Something that might make
you easy in your mind. I de-
stroyed those notes Boone made
before he died.”
“You did what?”
“I destroyed them. I didn’t
want to see you vulnerable. Be-
cause as soon as anything be-
comes vulnerable to the human
race it’s a goner, sure as shoot-
ing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this
before?” Archie rumbled.
“Because I couldn’t make up
my mind,” Doc told him. “I had
to think it out.”
“You had a long time to make
it up.”
Doc swiveled the cigar from
east to west. “Yeah, that’s right.
But somehow I couldn’t seem
to do it. I made the decision
just a little while ago.”
“What decided you?”
“A spaceship,” said Doc. “A
spaceship that you made.”
“I understand,” said Archie.
“You aren’t as tough as you
would like to have us think,” de-
clared Doc. “You might not
have had them before, but since
Masterson found you, you’ve ab-
sorbed some conception of hu-
man emotions. The spaceship
proved it.”
“I like you, doctor,” Archie
said. “You remind me of Mas-
terson.”
“I’m giving you the human
race to carry out your experi-
ment,” said Doc. “It can be a
great experiment. You have
good material to work with. All
you need to do is handle it right.
Point it toward the stars and
keep it going straight. I’m back-
ing you against Radium, Inc. I
think the human race will get a
better break from you. Don’t
disappoint me, Archie.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,”
Archie rumbled. “Maybe your
race does deserve a break.”
“They aren’t such bad folks.
And, anyhow,” Doc chuckled, “if
they don’t like the way you do
things they can turn their backs
on you. If they don’t insist on
radium, you have no hold on
them. But if Radium, Inc., could
beat you, there’d be no hope for
them. They’d only fall deeper
and deeper into slavery.”
“Why are you telling me
this?” Archie grumbled. “You
had the knowledge that would
have broken me. You haven’t
used it. You say you aren’t go-
ing to. Why not let it go at
that?”
“If you were a man,” declared
Doc, “I’d slap you down for that.
I’m not trying to pose as a hero.
There is something else.”
“Yes?”
“Look, Boone was the only
THE END.
man who stumbled on the clue.
Even he, perhaps, didn’t realize
all he had. But he might have.
Given time, he certainly would
have. But you killed him first.
You had intended to all along as
a means of escaping yourself.
But his stumbling on the clue
made you hurry up the job.”
“I was defending myself,”
Archie declared.
“Those notes were dangerous,”
said Doc. “They gave the hu-
man race an angle for attack.”
“But you destroyed the notes.
I’m safe now.”
Doc shook his head. “No,
Archie, you aren’t. For, you
see, I know.”
“But you wouldn’t tell.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” said Doc.
“I couldn’t help but tell. R. C.’s
police have ways to make one
talk. Slick ways. Unpleasant
ways. I’m a psychologist. I
should know. And they suspect
I may know more than I’ve ever
told. Chester was curious about
Boone’s reports — "
“But if you had escaped with
the others, you could have hid-
den — ”
“Even then, there would have
been the chance they would have
found me,” Doc declared. “Just
an outside chance — but in a
thing like this you can’t take
any chance at all.”
He walked across the room,
picked up the heavy stool.
“This is the only way to do it,
Archie. There’s no other thing
to do. It’s the only way we can
fool them — you and I.”
Archie’s voice was cold, me-
chanical. “You don’t have to do
it that way, doctor. There are
other ways.”
Doc chuckled. “Psychological
effect, Archie. First Boone, now
me. Makes you sinister. After
two accidents like this no one
will want to study you too much
— or too closely.”
He weighed the heavy stool in
his hand, getting the feel of it.
His cigar traveled across his
face. He lifted the stool and
crashed it down.
INSURE YOUR ENTIRE EAMHY
lor as long as any member may live
sfssgppf. § r I
t |
5
1 : ]
' _J
|
i» ~ ^ a
a J
One Policy- One Premium
One Low Cost
W. W. Pederson and his family of Chicago, 111., are protected by an
“American Family” Policy. No money worries for Mr. Pederson
because his “American Family” Life Insurance Policy will provide
the cash for bills — doctors, nurses, medicines and the many other bills
that come with unexpected tragedy in the family. Included in his
policy are his children, wife, brother, nieces, nephews and their
grandfather. You, too, should protect your family. Send the coupon.
$3,000.00
MAXIMUM CASH BENEFITS
for Mother, Father, Children
and Grandparents
Only $1.00 a month is all you ever have to pay for this low
cost Triple Cash Benefit “American Family” Life Insurance
Policy with cash benefits up to $3,000.00 for the entire family.
F.ach and every member of your family — mother, father,
children, aunts, uncles, even grandparents — may be included
in one policy for their lifetime. In the event of one death
the rest -of the family remain insured as long as you keep the
policy in force. The "American Family" Policy pays for ordi-
nary or natural death, double benefits for automobile accidental
death, and triple benefits for travel accidental death.
ONLY $1 A MONTH FOR ALL
F.ach and every member of your family from the baby to
grandparents — may he included in your application if you
wish — no medical examination for anyone. We take your
word regarding their good health. The Interstate Reserve
Life Insurance Company is an old reliable Company writing
insurance continuously for 33 years under strict supervision
NO MEDICAL EXAMINATION
of Illinois Insurance Department where over $100,000.00 is on
deposit for the protection of the policy-holders. You deal direct
with the company that is why we can offer you this better kind
of insurance with its large cash death benefits for your entire
family at such a low rate. Only $1.00 a month is all you ever
have to pay for all this life insurance for your entire family.
You should protect your family— Now while they are in good health
The “American Family” Life Insurance Policy for each and
every member of your family is probably the most amazing
policy ever written at such a low cost. That is why we want to
send you this policy on our 10 day free “read it in your men
home’’ offer. Then you decide for yourself. No agents or collec-
tors to bother you at any time. Any average family can afford
the small premium and no family can afford to be without life
insurance to cover the bills that come with sudden tragedy.
SEND NO MONEY^
Just Mail this Coupon
We want you to carefully examine in your own home the wonderful "American
Family" Group Policy on our 10 days free examination offer. You are under
no obligation to keep it. If you do not agree that it is the best insurance
for your family then you can send it back at our expense on our written
guarantee. You decide for yourself. No agents or collectors will- call on you
and you have full 10 days to decide. Don’t delay. Send the coupon right away.
Interstate Reserve Life Insurance Co,
10 East Pearson Street, Dept. 62
Chicago, Illinois
Please send me 10-day Free Examination offer and full details of
"American Family” Group Life Policy without obligation. Send No Money.
Name
10 DAYS FREE OFFER to the
readers of this Magazine
State
Live Music
Archive
Librivox
Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland
Museum of Art
Internet
Arcade
Console Living Room
Open Library
American
Libraries
TV News
Understanding
9/11